Terroir
by thimbles
Summary: Isabella Swan uproots her life on a whim, moving halfway around the world in search of something more. Perhaps she will find what she's looking for in the neatly laid rows of Cullen Family Wines' Hunter Valley vineyard. Sometimes, it is the grafted vine that produces the more vigorous growth.
1. Chapter 1

_**Terroir.**_

* * *

_TERROIR (Fr "soil") - The ecology of a wine. Key factors include the cultivar type, soil, climate, vineyard location, planting density, training system, pruning philosophy and the cultural and social milieu wherein the whole enterprise takes place._

* * *

_Chapter 1._

* * *

Isabella Swan has never seen the ocean. Not until she's suspended high above it, leaving behind everything and everyone she's spent the last twenty-three years calling home.

Rivers, dams, and lakes, ponds, fish tanks, swimming pools, these she knows. But looking down through the tiny double-paned window, her breath catches. From where she sits, there is nothing _but_ the ocean. Blue stretches across every corner of the earth, and she could easily believe that the entire world has disappeared, swept away or submerged, swallowed by this mythical expanse.

Rubbing her eyes awake, she ducks her head, shifting side to side in her seat, looking for any cracks in the blue. There are a few wisps of cloud far to … her left. Isabella guesses that might be east, but she's not sure if the aeroplane's path takes it directly south.

"First time flying?"

Isabella jumps in surprise. The man seated beside her has spent most of the flight thus far with buds jammed into his ears, his eyelids closed but twitching, like he was watching all kinds of things play out across his imagination. He speaks with the too-loud abrasiveness characteristic of chronic headphone wearers who forget that they don't need to raise their voices to speak over music others can't hear.

He looks at where her hand is pressed against her breastbone, and he shakes his head.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you." He chuckles; it's a deep and raspy sound, and Isabella wonders how it's possible he even laughs with an Australian accent. He pulls the bud out of his left ear, the ear closest to Isabella. "Where ya headed?"

"It's fine," she says. Her voice is quiet with nerves. "Uh, Sydney–" she blushes at his smirk "–obviously. But, I, um, I'll be going up a bit north in a little while. To the Hunter Valley." Her voice lifts a little at the end.

The big guy beside her nods, the sun-drawn creases around his eyes deepening. "Wine country. You gonna work up there?"

Isabella nods, her fingers tied in knots in her lap. She doesn't add anything, wondering how wise it is to tell a complete stranger where she's going to be spending the next twelve months.

He doesn't seem to mind, continuing on as if he hadn't really expected her to volunteer anything about herself, his voice rumbling along like a tractor plowing a field. "Yeah, I got a cousin that works up that way, in Newey anyway. Just waitressing or whatever, but she's heaps into it. Every day she has off, she heads out there, hitting up the cellar doors, tasting everything she can. She's hoping to move back to Sydney soon—she wants to train as a sommelier, then get a job in a hatted restaurant, y'know?"

Isabella nods again, hoping she's getting the gist of his conversation right. The guy just keeps talking, his fingertips scrubbing across his close-cropped hair. "I d'know squat about the stuff, to be honest. I prefer beer. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'll have a glass or two here and there—my ex-girlfriend always drank goon, though, and I hate that shit."

"Goon?"

The big guy laughs. "Right. Uh, cask – I mean, boxed wine."

"Oh." Isabella smiles. "Funny name."

He grins, his eyes crinkling so narrow Isabella can't tell what colour they are. "Yeah. You'd think after a year away from home I'd be better at remembering which words people are gonna trip over."

Isabella licks her lips, and squeezes her fingers tight. "Where have you been living? I mean, were you in L.A.?"

"Nah. I've been in Canada mostly. Workin' in Whistler, but I spent the last couple of months just hanging in Vancouver."

Isabella shoots another glance out the window. All she sees is endless blue. "That sounds fun."

"Yeah." The guy slaps his denim-covered thigh—the one not jiggling beside Isabella's knee—and she notices the cumbersome-looking brace for the first time. "Fu– screwed my knee up pretty bad about halfway through the season, so I got stuck doing equipment hire."

"I'm sorry." Isabella isn't sure what else to say.

He waves his big hand, like his injury is no big deal. "She'll be right. What about you? Is this–" he waves at the window she keeps glancing out of "–your first time flying?"

Isabella shakes her head, feeling her cheeks heat. "No. Well, kind of. I flew from Denver to L.A. last night. But I just – I mean, I've never seen the ocean before."

The big guy's eyes go really wide, and Isabella can now see that they're a strange mix of blue and green and brown—she supposes they'd be called hazel. "You've never seen the ocean? You're not taking the piss?"

"I've never seen the ocean." She can't help but smile as the guy shakes his head, like he can't believe what he's hearing.

"Whoa. I mean. Just …" he shakes his head again, and Isabella giggles as his mouth opens and closes. He shoots her a wry smile, and squares his shoulders, leaning back in his seat. "Sorry. I mean, I'm just – I grew up on the beach, you know? I can't imagine…"

Isabella chuckles. "It's probably as unimaginable to you, as growing up on the beach is to me."

"Ha. True." He offers her his hand. "I'm Emmett, by the way."

"Isabella. It's nice to meet you."

"You, too. So, where are you from?"

"Denver." Isabella hesitates, gathering her hair over one shoulder and combing her fingers through it. "Well, a smaller town just north-west of it."

Emmett nods. "I mean, I have a general idea about where that is, and how far it is from the coast. But you've never, I mean, you've never holidayed by the sea?"

"Oh. I haven't really – we didn't go on vacation very much. Until recently, it was just my Dad and me—well, my Mom …" Isabella sighs and shakes her head, forcing her mind away from the hospital that had become her second home for a while. "Dad couldn't really afford it, I guess."

_He was too busy saving up to put me through college,_ she thinks, feeling that familiar stab of guilt.

"What about you? Are you from Sydney?" Isabella turns the conversation back to a more comfortable subject—not herself.

"Yeah. I grew up in Maroubra, which is like, ten ks from the city, I guess."

Talking about his hometown lights Emmett up like a Christmas tree, and he spins story after story, making Isabella smile at the thought of this big guy as the weedy little kid he describes, learning to surf, "wagging" school, creating a whole lot of trouble, while trying to stay out of the way of the "'Bra boys."

His gravelly voice, punctuated by his rumbling laughter, rolls along, until Isabella yawns and then jerks suddenly, realising she's on the verge of falling asleep again. "I'm so sorry."

Emmett chuckles, unfolding the airline-issued blanket. "It's all right. Sleep. I'm knackered, myself."

Pulling her own blanket up to her chin, Isabella shifts in her seat, and watches the unending blue beyond the window until her eyes become too heavy to keep open.

* * *

Isabella knows she's dreaming. There's a corner of her mind that knows she's actually asleep, curled up in a small seat on a 747, suspended somewhere in the skies between Los Angeles and Sydney.

In her dream, however, Isabella is back in Exempla St. Joseph, sitting beside a narrow bed criss-crossed with tubes and wires, with the beeping of infusion machines ringing in her ears. She is watching her mother fade away—again.

In her dream, Renée Dwyer isn't clinging to her daughter's hand, doesn't smile one last time, and her chest doesn't rattle with her last few breaths. Rather, Isabella stands beside her mother watching fade into the white of her sheets, her pale face disappearing into her pillow until all that remains is a pile of empty linen on the bed.

"You're okay. Hey. Isabella. You're okay."

Isabella is tugged back into consciousness by the large hand on her shoulder. Emmett's face is lined with worry as he shakes her carefully, pulling her from the grip of the dream that has silent tears streaking her face and a sob building in her chest.

"You okay?" He ducks his head to look at her closely. "Bad dream?"

Isabella nods, swallowing down the sorrow that's lumped in her throat. "I'm sorry." She wipes her tear-sticky cheeks with the back of her hand.

Emmett shrugs. "No need to be sorry." He rummages through the backpack under his feet until he finds a small packet of tissues.

Isabella accepts them with half a smile. "Thank you."

"You all right?"

"I – yeah. I lost my mother a little over six months ago."

"I'm so sorry."

She nods. "I've been having strange dreams ever since. I don't know …" she trails off, waving a hand in dismissal. She doesn't want to dwell on the images her unconscious mind conjured.

Emmett squeezes her forearm. "That sucks."

"Yeah."

"I used to have this one dream," he tells her, folding his arms across his chest. "It's a total cliché, but you know the dream about getting to school and realising you're starkers? I had that one, like three times a week for years." He shakes his head. "You know, it got to the point I'd put my school uniform on before I went to bed at night, and I'd sleep in it. So when I woke up in a panic, I'd know straight away that it wasn't real."

Isabella is grateful for his obvious attempt to change the subject away from one she is uncomfortable with. She grins as she pictures him as a little boy, climbing into bed in a collared shirt and tie. "How old were you?"

He coughs out a laugh. "Fourteen."

Isabella bites her lip to stop a giggle from escaping, but he shakes his head.

"Go ahead and laugh, it's okay."

"I can't laugh now that you've told me to!"

Emmett chuckles. "Ah. Okay, I'll just have to embarrass myself a bit more—easy enough, I've done a lot of stupid things."

By the time the seatbelt light flashes on, and they're instructed to return their seats to an upright position and secure the tray tables, Isabella has to agree—Emmet _has_ done a lot of stupid things. She's actually kind of horrified by some of the stories he tells her. At first she wondered if it was a guy thing, or an Australian thing, but as he tells her about picking up a blue-ringed octopus with his bare hands, or about trying to ride a plastic rubbish bin down a steep—and busy—road, she starts to suspect it might just be an Emmett thing.

"Hey, are you excited?" Emmett asks her jabbing her side with his elbow. "You're almost in Sydney." He points out the window. The outer suburbs of Sydney are growing larger.

Isabella's hands meet in her lap, her fingers tangling together. "Sure"

"Convince me, now." His eyebrows lift as he watches her closely.

She sighs. "Yes, of course I am. I'm just – I mean, I've never been more than about four hours from home before, and it's just kind of sinking in. It didn't seem real until now."

Emmett nods, the laughter in his eyes fading. "I reckon that's normal. I was pretty freaked out the first time I went overseas by myself."

"This wasn't your first time? In Canada?"

"Nah, I worked in a boarding school in the UK the year after I finished high school."

Isabella blinks. "You–"

"Yeah, I know. What crazy person would leave me in charge of a bunch of twelve year old boys?" He shrugs and scrubs at his jaw. "I behaved myself until my days and evenings off. But yeah, it was scary as all hell being by myself in a different country. I mean, I'd kind of imagined it would be just like home except colder, you know?"

Isabella nods. She doesn't know, but she can imagine.

"It was a huge shock." He shakes his head, chuckling a little. "I was working up in Yorkshire, right? So even just trying to have a conversation was a bloody nightmare. I couldn't understand a word some of the kids were saying, their accents were so thick!"

Isabella smiles, thinking of the number of words Emmett has used in the last few hours that she hasn't completely understood.

"I guess it might be a bit–" he shrugs, "–different here, than what you're used to. But you're staying with a family friend, right? They'll look after you."

"Yeah." Isabella examines her fingertips, pushing the cuticle down and picking at the turquoise polish she applied on her last night at home. "I've got two weeks in Sydney before Esme comes to pick me up, so I'm just going to stay in a hostel and do some exploring and stuff."

"What're you going to do with all your luggage?"

"I only have like a hiking pack with me. I had a lot my stuff sent straight to their place so I wouldn't have to lug it around."

She glances at Emmett, who nods his approval. "Good thinking."

The thread of their conversation unravels as the aeroplane touches down, and Isabella loses sight of Emmett in the hustle of the disembarking passengers. After clearing customs, panic starts to unfurl in her belly.

People bustle around her, backpack-laden and trailing suitcases. Chatter in a number of different languages fills her ears—even without knowing the language they're speaking, she can tell the fair-haired family to her right are getting increasingly frustrated with one another. A baby's tired wail rings out over the business men in crisp suits snapping into their just turned-on mobile phones, the gushing of lovers reunited, and the excited jabbering of tourists anxious to leave the airport and begin their adventures.

She's beginning to wonder if she's made a terrible mistake in leaving the familiarity of home when Emmett finds her.

"Hey! Isabella." He squeezes between the family of frustrated blonds and an elderly Japanese couple who are studying the overhead signs, his smile wide. "Welcome to Australia." He sweeps his arms wide—nearly decking an Indian woman in a bright purple Sari. "Sorry, so sorry." The woman waves him off with a smile.

"So, I was thinking–"

"You're kidding." Isabella giggles, surprised at herself.

"Ha. Brat." Emmett grins. "But seriously. I don't have a job lined up yet so I don't know … if you want someone to show you around, I'd be happy to play tour guide."

Isabella hesitates. She'd like that very much, but her instinctive caution makes her wary.

"I can make my sister come, if that helps. I mean, yeah. I know you don't know me from a bar of soap and stuff."

Isabella shifts her weight from foot to foot, her fingers curling around the straps of her pack. "I'd like that."

* * *

In the shadow of the Brokenback Ranges, Edward Masen is staring out over a small plot of land with a sleepy smile playing on his sunburned lips. The neat lines of grass and exposed soil make it look almost like a giant hand has run a comb across the surface of the earth.

As the sun rises slowly, lining the sky with orange and purple, Edward yawns and downs the last of his tea. Chucking the dinted enamel mug onto the front seat, he slams the car door closed and stretches his arms above his head, his spine cracking and popping.

Stamping through the dew-damp grass, Edward moves around to the back of his ute, unhinging the tray gate. He sighs as he looks at the buckets of soaking cuttings. And yet, even in the face of several more days of tedious labour, he still feels the sting of anticipation. This little plot is his to tend to, and he's excited and hopeful about the project he's undertaking.

After several months of research, and countless hours spent calling and emailing winemakers and researchers across the globe, Edward has decided to top-graft the experimental Tyrian varietal into the two-acre vineyard that Carlisle has graciously set aside for him to experiment on. The rootstocks are healthy and strong, having supported Shiraz vines for the past decade, and Edward is grateful for the confidence his boss has placed in him, knowing he's voluntarily losing the income from this section of his vineyard for at least two years.

Slapping a worn akubra over his sun-bleached hair, Edward rolls his shoulders and sets to work, his callused fingers working slowly and methodically. Edward makes his cuts carefully, inserting the chip buds into the rootstock, wrapping them up with grafting tape—and hoping like hell they take.

At smoko, Jasper shows up, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth set in a grimace. Edward considers sending him home to keep sleeping last night's excesses off, but he realizes that even hungover, the kid can probably work faster than he himself can on a full night's sleep.

With a curt nod, Jasper grabs his gear and heads to the other side of the field. The two men work in silence with, as predicted, Jasper moving at almost double the pace Edward can manage.

It takes them just over two days to finish. Carlisle comes to check their work, nodding thoughtfully as he squats amongst the newly grafted vines. With a quiet "Good job, fellas," he sends Jasper back into the field to continue desuckering vines, and he and Edward head back to the cellar.

"I hired someone to take Tanya's job," Carlisle removes his sunglasses, hanging them on the collar of his t-shirt as they step into the barrel room. It's cooler in here, thanks to the state-of-the-art temperature control he had installed when he took over the vineyard eight years ago.

Edward nods, his eyes on the oak barrels on their racks. They line three walls, stored on their sides, four, sometimes five, barrels high. He tries to push aside the slightly wistful feeling that flutters through him at the mention of Tanya's name. "When?"

"I organised it about a month ago, actually. I forgot to mention it."

"Okay." Edward shrugs. It is Carlisle's vineyard, and therefore his business as to whom he hires to work at the cellar door.

"An American girl, actually. She'll be here in about two weeks."

Edward's eyebrows lift as he glances at his boss. "Doing your bit for the local economy, hey?"

Carlisle shrugs, unapologetic. "You remember Esme went to the States for a funeral maybe six months ago?"

Edward nods, picking some grass off his faded blue Bonds.

"She and Renée met about twenty-five years ago, and they kept in touch—visiting each other every five years or so. At the funeral, though, Es met Renée's daughter, and–" Carlisle shrugs, lifting his hat from his head and pushing a hand through his sweat-damp hair "–offered for her to come stay for a while. And whilst she's here, she might as well earn an income."

Edward wonders briefly how Esme had never met her friend's daughter in all that time, but he doesn't ask. Instead, he nods. "She from the Napa Valley? She know wine?" He's hoping this girl will know a bit about Cabernet Sauvignon production. His Tyrian is a Cab. Sauv. and Sumoll cross-breed, so maybe he can pick her brain. While Edward has a vague idea of what he hopes to do, he is much more confident with the more typically Hunter-grown varietals, and especially with the Semillon and Shiraz he's been in charge of producing for the last three vintages.

Carlisle chuckles, slapping Edward's back. "Nah. She grew up in Colorado, I think. Pretty sure she was studying to be a teacher."

Edward watches Carlisle closely. "Was?"

The older man frowns, but shrugs the question off. "Anyway, I'm going to clean up the cottage for her to stay in. I wanted you to know."

Edward grins. "Yeah, that could've been awkward." The cottage overlooks his newly grafted plot, and, had he not been warned, finding a strange girl wandering through his vines would have pissed him right off.

"Yep." Carlisle chuckles. "Also, before she starts at the door, I want you to take her through some tastings."

"Sure. No worries, mate." This doesn't faze Edward. He enjoys introducing people to wine tasting—it is after all, a good part of the reason that he does what he does.

"Good. Now, what're you up to?"

Edward scratches the side of his face. "Gonna run some fining trials on the 2011 Shiraz." He points towards the far wall, where the barrels containing the wine in question rest.

"Albumen?"

"Yeah. To be honest, I don't reckon it needs it, but we'll see."

"Okay." Carlisle claps his shoulder. "Let me know how it goes."

* * *

"Hey, Ma."

Edward chuckles as his mother startles, her brow lined with consternation. Beth Masen shakes her head as she tucks her needle into the tapestry she's working on, pushes the frame aside and heaves herself to her slippered feet.

"Stop doing that," she tells him, shaking a crooked finger at his grinning face.

"Sorry." He leans down and presses a kiss to her cheek, hardened and creased by age and sun. "Didn't mean to scare ya."

She coughs out a laugh, her voice rasping. "Yes, you did." She points towards the kettle as she moves across the room to her kitchen table. Edward obliges, filling it up and switching it on.

"Are you staying for dinner?"

Edward shakes his head as he pulls mugs from the cupboard and swings teabags into them. "Nah. I finished up the trials I was running early. Thought I'd drop 'round and see how you're going."

"Can't complain–"

"–but you will, anyway," Edward finishes for her.

"Oh, hush you." She pats his arm as he sets a mug of tea in front of her. "Has this got sugar in it?"

"Two," he assures her.

"Thanks, dear."

Edward slouches into the chair beside her. He blows across the steaming surface of his tea, which, unlike his mother's, is both unsweetened and milk-free. "What'd you get up to today, Ma?"

"I went into town," she tells him.

"Cessnock or Maitland?"

"Newcastle." The unsaid "duh, Edward" hangs in the air, punctuated by her raised eyebrow.

"Ah." Edward sips his tea, anxiety swirling in the bottom of his stomach. "You go see Auntie Kate?"

His mother nods, and her mouth turns down. The creases around her eyes no longer seem like laugh lines—she seems old, burdened. Edward can almost smell the sadness that wraps around them like a fog. _Liquorice and ammonia_, he decides, anaesthetic and bleach.

"She doing any better?"

His mother shakes her head, her eyes closing. "Worse."

_Shit._ Edward sighs and sets his mug down. "What can we–"

His mother shakes her head. "Nothing at all."

He drops his head into his hands, tugging at his hair, as though he can pull some shred of hope from his mind. "I'll go see her this weekend," he says, addressing the Jarrah tabletop. His eyes trace across the wood, reading history recorded across its surface in the strange hieroglyphic scratches of biros pushed too hard into paper. His mother's signature, fragments of his father's scrawl, a portion of a letter Edward wrote to his kindergarten teacher.

"That's probably a good idea." Edward looks up as his mother's words seem to catch in her throat, like they don't want to be voiced, don't want to spring from her lips into the air and become real. "The doctors say–" she sniffles "–she only has a few weeks left."

Edward feels the burn behind his eyes. His nostrils flare as he breathes deep, teeth clenched tight. He nods and reaches for his mother's hand. He wraps his rough fingers around hers, trying not to notice the mottled skin stretched across her bones.

"I had them checked," she whispers. "All of them. I went to the Skin Cancer Clinic today. After I left Kate."

Edward squeezes her hand a little tighter. "And?"

"All clear … for now."

Relief sends Edward's stomach into rollercoaster freefall. "Good. That's good."

She nods. "Yeah. Good."

"I should go." Edward stands, mug in hand. He drinks down the rapidly cooling liquid down in three gulps. Setting his empty cup in the sink, he sighs, scratching the back of his neck.

He leans down and kisses his mother's cheek again, and relief pulses hot through him. No melanoma. No cancer cells dividing and conquering beneath the skin his lips touch. "Tell Dad I said g'day. I'll see you Sunday arvo, 'kay?"

* * *

**A/N: The closest I can manage without a phonetic alphabet is "Terr-wah." **

**I anticipate 14 chapters and weekly updates.**

**BelieveItOrNot betas, edits, loves on Emmett, and always has an encouraging word. All my girls keep me writing with a smile on my face.**

**Shell x**


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2._

* * *

Carlisle pokes his head into the lab. "Edward?"

Edward looks up from the flight of Shiraz he's considering, a hand on his hip. He lifts one boot-clad foot and rubs it against the calf muscle of his other leg. "Yeah?"

Carlisle stops when he sees the row of black glasses lining the bench, lifting his hat from his head and pushing his hair away from his brow. "How's this going?"

Edward huffs out a frustrated breath, his thumb moving to the corner where his neck meets his shoulder and pressing hard against the tightness that's settled there. "Not too bad, I guess. You got a minute?"

"Yep. What's up?"

Edward fiddles around, pouring wines into various glasses. "Okay." He sets a line of five black glasses in front of his boss.

Carlisle nods and raises the first. He noses the glass, and even with the black glass in front of his face, Edward can see his appreciative smile. He chews his lip to keep his own grin leashed. Carlisle takes a noisy sip of the wine, sucking in air with the liquid, letting the wine splash across his tongue, his taste and olfactory receptors transmitting their perceptions to a brain with years and years of sensory experience—experience Edward only wishes he had.

Without saying anything, Carlisle expectorates the wine into the spittoon and huffs some air out his nose, his expression thoughtful. He sets the first glass down, and picks up the second. He repeats the process, moving down the line, filling the air with noisy slurps and swishes and spits.

"Okay?" He looks at Edward, who sees the question in his eyes.

Edward scrubs a hand across his face. "Which one do you prefer?"

Carlisle doesn't think about it, pointing straight at the first glass.

"It's more balanced, right?" Edward grins. "Beautifully structured. Give it ten years, it'll be just gorgeous."

"Yes." Carlisle smiles. "And …" At the sound of heavy footsteps he ducks his head out the door. "Oi! Jasper, come taste this."

Jasper clumps into the room, lips twisted with a grimace. He glances briefly at Edward, then drops his head a little, letting his too-long hair fall in front of his face.

Edward closes his eyes to stop them from rolling. The kid's nearly seventeen, and he's really started taking the whole teenaged-angst thing seriously of late. While Edward doesn't have a lot of patience for his attitude, he will admit Jasper has a bloody good palate for someone who can't even legally drink yet.

He sets out five more black tasting glasses, and Jasper picks up the first glass with a mumbled thanks. Once he's finished tasting, Jasper looks at his father. "This one," he mutters, pointing at the first glass.

"Why?" Carlisle asks.

Jasper's shoulders sag, and he address his Blundstones. "It's more balanced, I think." He kicks a pebble, which skitters across the concrete floor. "They all have lots of black fruit, forest berries and stuff. The earth and leather are really subtle. There's even something almost floral in there, too. But this one–" he waves towards the first glass "–is really nicely balanced. Has a better line, too."

"Good." Carlisle claps his son on his shoulder. "Thanks."

Jasper shrugs off his father's hand. "Can I go now?"

Edward holds back his eye roll, again, but can't help but smirk when he sees Carlisle look heavenward, as though his patience might be stapled to the ceiling.

"Yeah. Go on, rack off."

Jasper turns on his heel, hands stuffed in his pockets, and continues off on whatever vitally important mission he'd been so inconsiderately pulled from.

"These're different oak blends, right?" Carlisle asks, leaning back against the doorframe.

Edward nods. "I know we were shooting for seventy percent French for the Reserve, but this one is eighty percent."

"Okay."

"So there's gonna be a bit of excess American stuff."

Carlisle nods. "No problem, we can blend it into something else."

"'Kay." Edward picks up the glass and takes another sip, nodding to himself—it's going to be a bloody good drop with ten to fifteen years bottle age.

"Edward? I need a bit of a favour."

Edward looks up, his lips pursing. "What's up?"

Carlisle chuckles. "Nothing dramatic. Isabella's arriving next week though, and Esme's decided she wants to paint the cottage for her."

"Do you want a hand?" Edward rubs a hand over his eyes. "I've gotta go visit my aunt this Saturday, but I can stay back a few arvos, and I can probably do Sunday morning–"

"No, no." Carlisle shakes his head. "It's generous of you to offer, but Es and I can do that. I just need a hand getting rid some of the furniture that's in there. There're a couple of grotty couches that need to go to the tip. And some other heavy stuff I can't move on my own. I think there's still an old icebox in there, for crying out loud."

"Sure, that's no problem." Edward glances at his watch. "We can do it now if you want. I just need to chuck these glasses in the dishwasher and clean up here."

"'Preciate that, mate."

* * *

It doesn't take the two men long to pull two couches, an armchair, an icebox, and an old washing machine out of the cottage. Edward is surprised that the place is in such good nick, until Carlisle mentions that Esme has spent the last few days cleaning the bedroom, kitchen and bathroom up.

As they load the heavy items into Carlisle's trailer, playing an over-sized game of Tetris to get them all to fit, Esme arrives, clambering out of her Land Cruiser, her hands full. She's juggling sugar soap and sponges, rolls of masking tape, an edger, and a four litre tin of paint. She makes a kissy-face at Carlisle and grins at Edward as she stomps across the lawn towards the cottage.

"You gonna start taping up, Es?"

"Nah, I gotta wash the walls down first."

"Okay." Carlisle claps his hands, wiping the dust and grime from them. He looks at Edward. "Thanks for that."

Edward shrugs, using the back of his wrist to wipe away the sweat beading on his brow. "Anytime."

"Thanks, Edward," Esme calls from the wraparound porch. Her elbows are in the air as she rebraids her hair, her cleaning and painting supplies piled at her feet.

He waves in her direction, "No problem," then turns back to Carlisle, swinging his keys around the forefinger of his other hand. "You all good?"

"Yep. I might need a hand moving some stuff in once Es decides on what she wants in here—if that's okay?"

"Sure, just let me know." Edward wonders briefly who this Isabella girl is, and why Esme's going to such an effort for her. He bats the thought away—it's really not his business.

"Thanks again."

"It's no problem at all. I'll see you tomorrow."

"'Night."

Instead of climbing into his ute right away, Edward wanders into the newly grafted vineyard. In the fading light, with the deep blue shadows of night-time starting to sprawl across the land, he wanders the rows, checking on his vines. He ducks down to inspect graft sites at random, pleased to see the binding tape is holding fast, securing the implanted buds to the sturdy rootstocks that will support and nourish them. As far as he can tell at this early stage, things are progressing as they ought. There's no bleeding at the graft sites, but Edward makes a mental note to come check that again in another day or two.

Folding his arms over his head, Edward watches the last of the day slip behind the mountains. The first stars twinkle against the deepening sky, and the lush green that surrounds him becomes almost colourless as night unfolds like a blanket across the land.

Filling his lungs, Edward lets the air rush across his tongue, cold and fresh. He can almost taste the sweet earth of this place, the characteristic so strong it's expressed in so many of the Shirazes produced in this region. He can smell just the hint of rain, too, which makes him smile—he's hopeful it's going to be one hell of a season.

* * *

By Saturday afternoon, Edward feels none of the hope and lightheartedness he found in the vineyard. He climbs into his ute with reluctant feet, feeling as though the soles of his shoes are coated with superglue. He wants to let them stick, to stay standing on his driveway and pretend that this is just another Saturday, that he won't be missing anything if he sits at home with no shirt on, beer in hand, and watches the Swans play their semi final.

Instead, he forces his heavy feet into his car, and he forces himself to drive into the city, and even when he thinks he wants to go for a walk along the foreshore, he forces himself to turn into the hospital car park.

Ignition off, he sits behind the wheel, staring at his hands in his lap. The wail of an ambulance makes him cringe, but it's the push he needs to open his door and slide out of the car.

He treks through the halls, shoulders hunched, tasting the antiseptic that permeates the air.

When he finds his aunt, his stomach rolls over. She's dozing, her skin almost grey, scars marring her face, neck, and arms. The melanoma had been cut away, but too late—the insidious cells had already worked their way into her lymphatic system, beaten down her body's defences and taken her captive.

Edward feels relief spurt through him as he remembers his mother's clean bill of health. The momentary sweetness is chased away by guilt.

He clears his throat and steps closer. "Hi, Aunt Kate."

Her eyelids flutter but don't open. "Edward?" Her voice is less than a whisper, like pushing the breath from her lips to speak is an impossible effort.

"Hey." Edward leans down to kiss her cheek, self-disgust rising like bile as he holds his breath before touching his lips to her ravaged skin.

"How …" she shakes her head, unable to finish.

"I'm good."

Finally managing to open her eyes, she smiles weakly. Even her lips have been assaulted by the surgeon's blade.

Edward pulls a chair close to her bed, lowering himself into it and reaching for her hand. It's cold. At a loss, he starts to babble, filling the emptiness with meaningless chatter. He gives her a rundown of everything he's done since he last visited. He describes the springtime beauty of the vineyard, the work he's doing, the new varietal he's grafted in. When he starts to tell her about the wines he's been tasting, she coughs out a laugh and raises her hand slowly, waggling a crooked finger at him.

"Aunt Kate, you're not going to try to tell me Fruity Lexia is better than my Reserve Shiraz, are you?" He chuckles, shaking his head as she smiles at him.

"Tell you what," he lowers his voice. "Next time I visit, I'm gonna sneak some in. Then we'll see if you still think there's no difference."

His aunt smiles, even though he can see the resignation in her eyes. They both know that's it's all too likely that there won't be a next time.

* * *

Isabella holds tight to the railing. Even though the ropes around her waist secure her, her brain isn't quite able to convince her fingers, or her shaking knees, that she's safe. Knuckles white, she breathes deep and opens her eyes again.

"Whoa. This is unbelievable."

She looks across at Emmett, lips pressed together to hold back the slightly hysterical giggle that's threatening to bubble out of her.

"This bridge. I mean …" He shakes his head. "I've lived just a few ks that way–" he points towards the south "–for most of my life. But up here …" Lifting one hand to shield his eyes, Emmett scans the horizon, a low whistle on his lips.

Isabella swallows down her nervous laughter. "It's amazing. Just … stunning."

Her fingers still wrapped around the railing, she looks out over the harbour. It's blue—so blue—streaked with the white wake of the green and yellow ferries that criss-cross its surface all day. To the north a fleet of yachts zigzag upwind, sails full in the north-easterly breeze.

"I didn't think – I mean, I've driven across this bridge hundreds of time. But being up here…" He laughs. "Look at me. I'm all speechless, hey?"

Glancing past him, Isabella catches the wide smile of the tall English girl who climbed behind them. Her eyes—as blue as the harbour beneath them—are fixed on Emmett. Isabella can't remember her name. Rosemary? Rose-something.

Wisps of blonde hair escaping her ponytail flicker around her face, and the girl's gaze skips from Emmett to Isabella, her eyes widen when she sees Isabella watching her. She looks down, her cheeks painted red. Feeling a little bad for her, Isabella leans around Emmett to speak to the blushing girl, "It's amazing, right?"

The girl nods. Her voice is soft, her accent lilting. "It's gorgeous. I almost didn't come up, but I'm so glad I did."

Emmett leans back in the narrow walkway, trying to give the two girls room to converse.

"Heights?" Isabella looks down, the eight lanes of speeding cars is a sharp contrast to the beauty displayed on either side of the steel grey coat hanger.

The English girl nods. "I'm not very comfortable with them."

"Me, either." Emmett interjects. Isabella narrows her eyes. He's spent the last few days punctuating their exploration of Sydney and its surroundings with stories about skydiving and bungee-jumping and abseiling and wanting to be dropped out of a helicopter to ski down enormous mountains. Isabella finds it a little unlikely that he would therefore have problem walking the stairs that follow the bridge's arch.

As though he can feel Isabella's scepticism conducted along the railing they all grip, his eyes flick to her for a moment before he looks back at the English girl. "Well, no. I mean – I can be up high okay, but only for a bit. I'm okay to like, jump or something … but just standing around up here – it's making me a little nervous, actually." He shifts his weight, his fingers still curled around the railing, skin pulled tight across his knuckles.

Gasps and ooh-aah noises capture Isabella's attention then, and she stands on her toes to see what's going on. The last two climbers in their little chain gang have drawn the attention of the rest—the young guy who was bringing up the rear is on his knees in front of his girlfriend. Isabella can't see the girl's face, but she can see the smile that threatens to split the guy's face in half, so she guesses he got the answer he hoped for. A different scene flashes through her mind: another man on his knees, wearing the same smile—proud and joyful.

"Cute." Emmett elbows her in the side, jolting the image from her brain.

She nods. "Yeah, I guess."

"Not your thing?"

"Not really."

Emmett nods. "It's kinda tacky, hey?"

She laughs, but it sounds hollow and false in her own ears. "I've seen worse."

The guide declares it time to begin their descent, and marriage and engagements and public proposals are quickly pushed from Isabella's mind. She stumbles a few times on the way down, too busy soaking up the scene surrounding her to pay attention to where she places her feet.

As they struggle out of their borrowed jumpsuits and refill their pockets with the loose items they weren't permitted to take on the climb, Isabella watches the unsubtle dance of looking-at-you-until-you-look-at-me Emmett and the British girl are engaged in.

She feels almost like she should cheer when Emmett finally works up the guts to ask the girl if she'd like to join them for a beer.

"Your girlfriend won't mind?" The soft-spoken blonde asks.

"She's not – I mean … we met on the plane and–"

"He's my tour guide," Isabella says, smiling at the girl. "I'm Isabella, by the way."

"Rosalie."

"Emmett." The big guy extends his hand and shakes Rosalie's. His cheeks are as red as hers.

Isabella can't resist. "I think you two might have gotten a little sunburned."

* * *

For the rest of the week, Rosalie joins Isabella and Emmett as they traipse across the greater Sydney region. Emmett's sister, Makenna, joins them once or twice, but most days it's their strange little multicultural threesome. Emmett takes them to pet koalas and coo over kangaroos, and stands by patiently whilst they fill up memory cards with images of the Opera House and The Rocks. They check out all the most popular tourist traps, as well as the places he insists they need to visit to see the "real" Australia.

The bar they're sitting in three days after their bridge climb, however, doesn't feel very Australian to Isabella. In fact, if it weren't for the broad accents gabbling around her, flattening vowels and rolling across consonants, she could almost believe she'd somehow stumbled into 1920's Paris.

Bartenders sporting braces and bowties pour drinks behind a dark timber bar. Low lights and the soft jazz and crooning voices make the air seem thick and hazy, despite the absence of cigarette smoke.

Isabella takes a sip of the Tasmanian whisky the suspendered bartender recommended, and leans towards Rosalie, who is sitting on the stool beside her, ankles crossed, nursing a gin and tonic. "Do you remember how we got here?"

Rosalie giggles. "I'd not have a bloody clue, other than the fact I believe we're underground."

"Yeah, those stairs were kinda steep."

Rosalie nods, scowling at her feet as she swings her legs. "I was so certain I was going to go arse over tit getting down the blasted things." She extends a leg to Isabella. "Death traps."

Isabella nods, looking at the sparkly black heels strapped to Rosalie's feet. She extends her own foot, tapping the yellow patent leather. "Me, too."

She glances around the dimly lit bar, and sees Emmett still chattering with the crowd of guys who absorbed him into their circle with loud cries of "Bro," and "M_a_te," and a whole lot of back-slapping and hand-shaking about fifteen minutes earlier.

Rosalie sets her drink on the counter, and clears her throat. "So," she drags her fingertip through the condensation on the glass as she speaks, "you're only in Sydney for a few more days?"

"About a week."

Rosalie looks up briefly, her gaze directed not at Isabella but at the group of guys who have stolen Emmett away. She looks back at her drink. She spreads the water dripping from her glass across the varnished timber countertop with her index finger. "And … do you…" She sighs, shaking her head. Blonde hair flops over one eye and she blows it away.

Isabella smiles. "Rosalie, I'm not interested in him. Not like that."

Rosalie lifts her glass, hiding her lips. She asks, "Is there someone else?" then takes a sip. "At home, I mean."

Isabella circles her empty glass around on its base. "No." She sighs and sets the glass upright, catching the bartender's eye and nodding at the silent question he asks with a tilt of his chin. "There was, I guess. But not anymore."

The whisky dissolves the bindings on her tongue, and the words spill easily. "When my mom died, I was kind of a mess for a while. And then my dad—my parents split when I was a baby—got remarried about a month later, and then, well, his wife is pregnant. So, I just – I mean, I decided I just wanted a clean slate – I just want to start again from scratch, you know? So I called up Esme, and she said I was welcome at any time, but they also had a job going …" She shrugs. "So I quit my job, sold nearly everything I owned, and," she puffs her cheeks and blows out a deep breath, "I broke up with my boyfriend of three years."

Rosalie nods but says nothing, a sad smile playing on her lips as she chases a cube of ice around the bottom of her glass with a straw.

"I felt awful, but I wanted … I just needed to cut all the strings." Isabella sighs, propping an elbow on the bar and resting her chin in her palm.

A tattooed wrist pushes another glass of amber liquid in front of her. "Thanks."

"Speyside, this time," the bartender tells her. "Aberlour a'bunahd."

He sets another gin and tonic in front of Rosalie, who gives him half a smile.

"Sláinte." Rose says, clinking her drink against Isabella's. She takes a small sip, then sets her glass back on the bar. "I didn't tell my girlfriend that I was leaving."

She twists the ends of her ponytail around her fingers for a moment, then lays her hands flat against the bar. "We'd been together for almost a year. I was just – I'd just had enough. I did practically the same thing you did … except, I didn't tell anyone I was going until I landed in Melbourne."

She sighs, still talking to her hands. "Jane – I mean, I loved her. I truly did. And everything was humming along just … splendidly. My career was progressing exactly as I planned. I had a lovely little flat, a gorgeous girlfriend, a wonderfully supportive family." She sighs, her shoulders curling in. "But I felt like I was drowning under the weight of my own expectations."

Isabella searches for words of comfort, but she feels ill equipped to speak them.

"It was a selfish thing to do," Rosalie says. Her voice is quiet, as if all her energy is going into forcing the words to take shape, and there is none left to give them volume. "I know. But I just – I needed to get away before I suffocated."

"How long–" Isabella swallows the rasp in her voice. "How long ago did you leave?"

Rosalie taps a red-painted nail against the wood. "I left London on New Year's Day. It seemed poetic … or something like that."

"And your girlfriend – Jane, was it?"

"Yes, Jane. She was upset, of course. But she hadn't been happy for a while, either." Rosalie rubs her lips together, then sighs. "Maybe one day we'll be friends again."

Isabella waves the bartender over, and he smirks as he pulls the bottle of sparkling wine she requests from the under-counter fridge. "Two glasses?"

"Three." Emmett squeezes between the two women, his smile bright as he rubs his hands together. "What're we toasting?"

Isabella leans around him to catch Rosalie's eye. "To deep breaths."

* * *

The one thing Emmett flat out refuses to do is take Isabella and Rosalie to Bondi Beach. No amount of cajoling will change his mind, and even Rosalie's pretty pout seems ineffective.

"I'll take you to Tamarama," he tells them. "It's the next beach south. Tiny, but this time of year it should be pretty quiet. Bondi's full of bloody tourists all year."

Isabella glances at Rosalie, her eyebrows climbing her forehead, _We're not tourists? _Rosalie shrugs, and they press their lips tight over giggles. Emmett seems to be oblivious to them as he grumbles away about backpackers overstaying their tourist visas.

It's only early-October, but both Emmett and Rosalie wade straight into the water. Isabella follows more slowly, tugging at the ties on her new bikini and watching the waves as they roll onto the shore and are sucked back out.

Isabella takes a deep breath of the salty air and smiles as she steps into the ocean's cool embrace for the first time in her life. The water is crisp, but invigorating—she can almost feel the energy soaking through her pores and settling in her bones.

She stays in the shallows at first, getting used to the sea, letting the foam tangle around her knees as the waves roll in. She watches Emmett catch a few waves, his arms moving in powerful strokes until the wave catches him and propels him forward.

"Oi!" She looks up at Emmett's shout. He's crashing back through the surf towards her, water dripping down his broad chest and splashing everywhere with his powerful strides. "I can't believe I forgot."

"Forgot what?" she calls back. She knows she put sunscreen on—_what else is there to remember? _She glances over her shoulder to check their belongings are still secure on the sand.

"Is this your first time in the ocean?" Emmett stops a few metres away from her, pointing at the undulating surface of the sea.

"Oh." Isabella smiles. "Yeah, it is."

"Can you swim?"

She laughs. "Yes. Did you ask Rosalie that, too?"

"Rose?" Emmett chuckles. "She can swim better than I can, mate. Surfs, too."

Isabella blinks. "Really?"

"Yeah, heaps of surfers in England. Tough-nuts, too. Water's bloody freezing. Anyway," he waves a hand, "not important. You're in the ocean!"

She grins. "I am."

Emmett sighs dramatically, his shoulders sagging. He shakes his head. "Don't take it personally. It has to be done."

"Wh–" Before she can clarify exactly what it is that _has_ to be done, Emmett has thrown her over his shoulder and is charging out into deeper water. He laughs at Isabella's shrieks, stopping when the water is swirling around his waist. His hands find her waist and Isabella squeals, then holds her breath as she feels herself launched into the blue.

She's only submerged for a few seconds before her feet find the sand and she breaks the surface, but that moment, with the water rushing loud and silent in her ears, is one she'll remember for a long time. She won't remember spitting salt water at Emmett, or the springtime sun warm on her back, or the feel of the sand beneath her feet. What she will remember is the giddy drop of her stomach, the thump-thump of excitement in her bloodstream, the feeling of possibility coursing through her, from her smile to her wriggling toes.

* * *

**A/N: I've been completely blown away by your kind responses to _Terroir_. Thank you so much! You guys are wonderful. **

**You know who else is wonderful? BelieveItOrNot, who beta-ed this for me in the midst of crazy RL hecticness, and whilst she's sick. **

**Believey, I really hope that one day we'll get to sit on the beach (perhaps not Tamarama, but I totally picked that one just for you, jsyk), and laugh and talk about words and stories. Thank you so much for your help - I am truly so very grateful. (Sometimes, I wish there was a bigger word for THANK YOU.) Feel better, bb!**

**Shell x**


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3._

* * *

The shouts and grunts of male voices reach Edward as soon as he climbs out of his ute, carrying easily in the late afternoon air. The sun is hanging low, starting her slow slide into the west, and the sky is awash in lavender and pink.

"Masen!" A large hand catches him between the shoulder blades. "Where ya been, mate?"

Edward spins on his heel and lands a punch in his assailant's gut. "Workin'. How's it goin', Al?"

Alistair Richards shrugs. He manages to dodge Edward's second punch, but Edward is quicker and lands a third jab—before the weight of a body on his back sends him crashing to the grass with an "oof."

Edward and the newcomer roll around on the damp grass for a bit, grappling and grabbing at each other like MMA wrestlers, until Edward manages to pin his tackler to the ground. The other guy, a short, dark-skinned young man with dark eyes and a cheeky grin, laughs as he squirms against Edward's hold.

"You gonna tap out, Pete?"

"Nope—aarghh."

Edward grins, twisting Peter's wiry arm behind his back. Peter groans and hits the ground three times with the arm Edward doesn't have hold of. With a laugh, Edward releases him and springs to his feet, pulling the shorter man behind him. "How's it going, man?"

"Not bad." Peter aims a kick at Edward's shin but misses. "You ready to play?"

"Always."

Digging his headgear and boots out of his bag, Edward quickly joins the rest of the guys on the rugby field. He's eager to blow off steam; worry over his aunt's worsening condition has made sleeping difficult, and he's looking forward to the physical release of hard hits and sprinting around on the rugby pitch.

Ninety minutes later, sweaty and covered in grass stains, the rowdy group of guys disperses into clumps of twos and threes. Beers and brightly coloured sports drinks are passed around, and Tame Impala drifts across the football field from an open car window, carried by the lazy breeze.

Edward shakes his head at the tinny Pete holds out to him, which earns him a ribbing for his snobbish drinking habits.

"Wine boy's tastebuds are too precious to be defiled with VB," Alistair says, popping open his own dark green can. Edward flips him the bird, and continues to gulp water from the bottle he's dug out of his bag.

Pete shakes his head and forces an exaggerated sigh. "If I hadn't stood beside you at the trough, man …" His teeth gleam in the orange light thrown by the streetlamps as he loses the battle with his grin

Edward rolls his eyes but says nothing.

"Hey, Mase." Another guy, his sandy blond hair damp with sweat, drops onto the grass beside Edward. "How ya been, all right?"

Edward nods, swallowing more water. He wipes his mouth on the back of his arm. "Not bad. How's it going, Garrett?"

"Good, good. Busy as." Garrett is a cellar hand in a winery out the back of Broke. Though he's eager to move into the lab, the company he works for has been reluctant to give him opportunities to move in that direction. "Applied for a job with Newton's, too. Fingers crossed, hey?"

"Sweet. You'll learn a lot there." Edward grins—Garrett's excitement is contagious. "Hey, how's your old man?"

"Better. He's supposed to take it easy, but try tellin' him that."

"Well, if the old lady can't keep him under control," Edward chuckles "no one's gunna be able to."

"Too right." Garrett sighs. "At least the doc's managed to convince the old bastard to take blood pressure meds now." He shakes his head, snorting quietly. "So, heard your girl got herself a sweet job in Tassie."

Edward rips a handful of grass up by the roots. The grass, and the dirt clods clinging to it, connects with Garrett's shoulder, spraying grit into his mouth.

"The fuck, Mase?"

"She's not my girl, dipshit." Edward's eyebrows lift. "Never was. And yeah, she got offered an assistant winemaker's position somewhere down there—Freycinet coast, I'm pretty sure."

Garrett nods. "Are you–"

"Who? Who's got a sweet job?" Peter's voice cuts across whatever Garrett was about to ask.

Garrett catches Edward's eye and smirks.

"Tanya." Edward sighs, knowing what's coming next.

"Tanya?"

"What about Tanya?" Alistair sits up, looking around as though he expects to see the stunning blonde strolling across the grass towards them.

"She moved to Tasmania," Garrett says.

"What?"

"No!"

"When?"

"Aw, man."

Pete and Alistair look at Edward, eyes wide, like children who have just been told that Santa Claus isn't real and are clinging to the hope that they've been misinformed.

Edward scrubs a hand over his face. "Are you fellas for real?"

They blink at him.

"Bloody hell." Edward starts throwing his gear back into his bag. "She moved a few months back, guys."

Peter shakes his head sadly. "Tanya was my second choice."

Garrett snorts when Edward, against his better judgement, asks, "Second choice for what?"

"A wife." Peter looks at Edward, the unsaid, _Well, duh_, hanging in the night air.

Alistair nods. "Who's your first pick?"

"Miranda Kerr." Pete sighs, a dopey smile sliding across his face.

"Right." Edward climbs to his feet. "I'm gunna leave you morons to your delusions. Might see yous Friday night."

* * *

After running sulphur dioxide aspirations all morning, Edward heads out into the vineyard to check on his Tyrian grafts. It's been ten days since he grafted in the new varietal, and so far things are progressing well. As he leaves the lab, the sun is warm on his shoulders, and with his Aunt Kate's whisper haunting him, he stops by his ute to grab a tube of sunscreen. Once the thick, white cream is rubbed into his skin, he washes his hands and heads up to his little plot.

He walks up and down the rows in the bright sunshine, his frown deepening as he looks over the graft sites. Edward sighs when his fingers come away wet as he inspects a few of the vines. They're bleeding. He rubs the clear liquid between his fingers, then wipes it on his shorts.

Working along the rows, Edward makes careful cuts at the base of the trunks. His incisions are precise, two cuts, six millimetres deep, one each side at the base of the rootstock trunk. Sap will flow from these incisions in the cambium, relieving the pressure on the graft sites, stopping them from being dislodged by excessive flow.

By the time Edward has finished working his way through the vines, his back is aching and the sun's heat is ebbing into the clear afternoon. Though the days are growing longer, the evenings and mornings are still crisp and chilly. Edward links his fingers behind his head, arching his back to stretch out the muscles. His spine pops as he tilts his pelvis forward, and a soft groan of relief escapes his lips.

As the sky darkens, gold light seeps across the landscape. Edward blinks when the lights of the little cottage flicker on. His frown doesn't have the chance to form before understanding dawns—Esme is still working on the place, doing it up before the new girl arrives.

In no hurry to head home and hang out with his television, Edward jogs across the grass and up the steps, onto the cottage's wraparound porch.

"Esme?"

"Come on in, Edward."

He pulls open the screen door and steps inside. The timber floorboards shine in the hall light, and Edward toes off his boots in the doorway. He's impressed at how well the floors have come up. The smell of fresh paint lingers, tickling his nose. He scratches it absently as he walks down the hallway, towards the kitchen and dining room where he can hear Esme humming.

"Place looks great," he says by way of greeting.

Esme looks up, smiling. Paint streaks the side of her face—the soft grey-blue he noticed in the hallway, and the dark beige-brown colour she's rolling across what she obviously intends to be a feature wall. "Thanks, hun. Once I finish this wall," she waves at the half-rolled wall, "I think I'm pretty much done."

"Can I give you a hand?"

Esme tips her head and pushes her hair out of her eyes. Another smear of paint appears on her forehead.

"Sure." She gives him an easy smile. "You'll be able to reach further than me. Can you get the stepladder from the porch?"

With Edward balanced atop the ladder, spreading the dark coloured paint across the top half of the wall, Esme starts pulling the masking tape off the other walls.

They work in easy silence for a while, the only sounds the kind of ripping noise the tape makes as Esme peels it off the windowsills, and the raspy slide of the roller across the giprock.

"How's your mum and dad?" Esme asks, scrunching up a ball of tape and throwing it on to the drop sheet-draped table

"Not bad." Edward's answer is reflexive. He sighs, his eyes on the paint he's spreading. "Aunt Kate hasn't got much longer so Mum's not doing so well."

"I'm sorry, hun." Esme's voice is heavy with compassion.

"Me, too." Edward chews on his tongue, searching for words to give voice to the tightness in his chest. They're there, building in his throat, but he swallows them down, their sharp edges catching. He opts for the easier alternative—distraction.

"So, how did you meet, uh—it's Isabella, right?"

Esme gives him a sad smile, acknowledging the subject change. "Yeah, Isabella. I only met her at Renée's funeral, actually."

The only response she receives is the sound of a wet paint roller sliding across the wall.

"Renée … well, I loved her dearly but she was – I suppose you'd call her a bit of a loose cannon. She took off when Isabella was just a baby, so she—Isabella, I mean—was raised by her dad. Renée visited her heaps, of course, but I only saw Renée every few years, so I never actually met her daughter until the funeral."

Edward frowns at the wall. His own mother has been so constant, he finds it hard to imagine her flitting in and out of his life.

"Carlisle said she was training to be a teacher?"

"Mmm." Edward glances over his shoulder in time to see Esme sigh, her shoulders falling. "She – well, from what I can gather, she dropped out and used the money her dad had saved for her education to cover Renée's medical bills."

Edward wobbles on the stepladder, his free hand steadying him against the wall before he can fall. "Shit."

"You right?"

Edward takes a deep breath, trying to centre himself. He rolls his handprint off the wall, and wipes his hand on his shorts. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just … lost my footing." He shakes his head. He says nothing of the unidentifiable emotions that are tumbling through him—he doesn't understand them, so he tries to brush them away. They stick like cobbler's pegs.

Once he's recovered his composure, Edward steps off the ladder, examining the freshly painted wall. "So when is Isabella arriving?"

"She should be here this weekend."

* * *

Twelve days after she lands in Sydney, Isabella reluctantly pulls her laptop from its bag. She plugs the universal adapter into the wall socket and powers it up with a sigh.

The chime of an incoming Skype call sounds within seconds of her connecting to the hostel's Wi-Fi. Isabella rolls her eyes, pushes her hair out of her face, and pastes on a smile as she answers the call.

"Your father's been worried about you."

"Hi, Sue."

Isabella's stepmother's frown fills the screen. "Are you looking after yourself? You look thinner. Are you sunburned? You're all red. Is that your room? It looks very basic. Do you–"

Isabella cuts her stepmother off. "I'm having a ball, Sue. It's been so much fun, really."

"I–"

"Yes, I'm looking after myself. Yes, I got a little sunburned at the beach yesterday—the sun is kinda fierce, even in early Spring. And yes, this is the hostel room. It _is_ pretty basic. Just a bed and a desk, but I'm only here to sleep, so it's no big deal." Isabella keeps talking, her smile fixed in place as she details everything she's done in the last ten days—anything to keep her stepmother quiet. But it's when a moustachioed face appears that her smile becomes genuine. "Hi, Dad."

"Hey, sweetheart." Charlie Swan's moustache might hide his smile, but there's no concealing the affection in his voice. "You taking care of yourself?"

"Of course I am." Isabella smiles. "I miss you."

"Miss you, too." On screen, her father pulls out a chair and lowers himself into it. The picture shakes a little as he pulls the laptop closer, and his wife disappears of camera. "Tell me what you've been up to."

As Isabella fills her father in on the adventures she's had in the last two weeks, she can hear Sue huffing around. Her mumbling finally grows faint as she leaves the room, calling to Charlie that dinner will be reading in an hour.

"How is Sue?"

Her father's eyes tighten a little, and he rubs a fist side-to-side on his brow. "She's good, really. She's nesting, I believe."

"Nesting?"

"Yeah. Apparently it's normal. You know, before the baby comes. She's making the house all homey—cleaning, buying new furniture, rearranging the pantry at two in the morning."

Isabella's lips twitch towards a smile. "That's normal?"

"So I'm told." Charlie's moustache seems to droop. "I mean, your mom–" he sighs. "Well, I guess there's a lot of difference in what constitutes normal, anyway."

"Yeah, of course." Isabella looks at her fingers, tapping her nails against the cheap laminated desk. Her nail polish is chipped and flaking off. She reminds herself to buy some nail polish remover in the morning.

"Sweetheart?"

"Mmm." Isabella looks back at the screen. Her father's brows are lined with concern.

"You doing okay? I mean, you'd tell me if you weren't, right?"

"I'm fine, Dad."

"Fine?" Her father shakes his head. "Not good enough, Iz."

"Huh?" Isabella scrapes her teeth over her bottom lip, her eyebrows contracting. "What – what do you mean?"

"Just – don't settle for fine, all right? Life is too short for _fine_. Find … good, great, wonderful. I'm not saying life is easy, or that it won't be really damn hard at times, but just … I want more than _fine_ for you. And I hope you want more than that for yourself, too."

Isabella remembers this feeling. This feeling that she's just grown six inches in the face of her father's care and love. Her childhood memories are littered with this feeling. "Thanks, Dad."

"Look, I know I wasn't as supportive as I should've been when you told me you were going to move halfway around the world for a year – and I'm sorry. You had Sue and Jake giving you such a hard time, and I guess I should've spoken up then. But you handled them and I was so proud of you." On screen, her father looks away from the camera, his shoulder lifting and falling with his sigh.

"Dad–"

"I've just – I mean, I've been thinking, and you gave up a lot—college, your time, your happiness—to take care of Renée. And I'm sorry."

Isabella shakes her head, familiar guilt stinging. "Dad, no–"

"No, Iz – let me, please. I understand why you did it, okay? And I wish I figured it out earlier, and I wish I could help you out. To finish school, you know?"

Isabella sighs, pushing a hand through her hair. Guilt and relief and gratitude eddy through her veins, making her light headed. Her voice shakes, "I don't know if that's what I want anymore."

"I know." He nods, and scratches his cheek. "So, just … have fun. I don't – I mean, stay there, come home, or travel to Germany or … Antarctica—do what makes _you_ happy. I miss you, kid. But wherever you are, wherever you want to be, just don't settle for _fine_."

Isabella wipes the wetness from her cheeks with the back of her hand. She sniffles and nods. "Thank you."

Charlie clears his throat. "But you better keep in touch."

The noise that leaves Isabella's mouth is half a laugh, half a sob. "Of course."

Sue's voice draws her father's attention away from the screen. Isabella can hear her asking him to help her get dinner ready. They're having guests, apparently. He tells her he'll be there in a minute and turns back to the computer. "I gotta go, sweetheart."

"That's okay. I'll talk to you soon, Dad."

"Yeah, you better." His moustache twitches with his smile. "I love you, Isabella."

"Love you, too, Dad."

* * *

Rosalie pouts as she watches Isabella repack her backpack for the third time, trying to squeeze the bundle of new clothes she's purchased in with the ones she brought from home. "Can't you stay a few more days?"

Isabella shakes her head. "Nah, Esme's coming in the morning to pick me up."

She looks up and shrugs at the gorgeous Brit who is stretched out across the bed in her cramped hostel room. "You could always come and spend a few days in the Hunter Valley."

Rosalie snorts. "Oh, I will be. And you better have a few days off to take me around."

Isabella giggles. "Give me notice, then, okay? Before you come up, I mean. Esme seems lovely, but I don't want to presume on their generosity."

"Of course." Rosalie checks her watch. "Emmett should be here soon."

"Soon?" Isabella pulls the t-shirt she's wearing over her head and chucks it at Rosalie. "Emmett's idea of punctual is being less than an hour late." She pulls a simple, sunshine-yellow sundress over her head, then kicks her jeans off from beneath it.

Rosalie laughs, sitting up and folding Isabella's shirt neatly. She places it on the hideously patterned bedspread—obligatory in cheap motels and hostels the world over—and bounces off the mattress. "Let me do your hair whilst we wait for him then."

* * *

Isabella stands in front of the hostel, kicking at stray pebbles on the footpath. She shifts the weight of her backpack on her shoulders, and tips her head from side to side. Esme was supposed to meet her twenty minutes ago, and Isabella is starting to worry her mother's friend has forgotten about her. She refuses to let that thought grow, squashing the _what ifs_ into a dark corner of her mind.

She's examining her fingernails—now painted a sparkly red—when a noisy four-wheel drive rattles up to the curb. The Land Cruiser is absolutely filthy. Red dust clings to the white paint, dark brown mud splatters the lower half of the vehicle. The only dirt and dust free parts of the car are the overlapping half-circles wiped clean on the windscreen.

Esme Cullen honks the horn once and beams at Isabella through the open windows. Before Isabella can open the door to climb in, Esme is out of the car and opening the back door of the Land Cruiser. "Throw your bag in, Isabella," she calls.

Her bag stowed, Isabella turns to Esme with a small smile. "Hi, Esme."

"It's good to see you again." Esme's smile is wide, the lines around her blue eyes deepening as she pulls Isabella into a hug that is as warm as the glow of the springtime sun overhead. "How ya been, busy?"

Isabella steps back, smiling and nodding. Thanks to her time with Emmett, she's gotten used to that peculiar Australian quirk of answering one's own question. _How ya goin', all right? Whose shout, must be yours?_

"Yeah, I haven't really stopped since I landed."

"Good, good. Sorry I'm so late, dear." Esme shakes her head and some of her red hair, sun-streaked to a coppery-gold, falls loose from her messy topknot, framing her freckle-dusted face. "Geez, I haven't driven into the city for, I d'know, probably two years. I've forgotten my way around." She waves a hand at the streetscape. "It's changed heaps in that time."

Isabella smiles again, not sure what she should say.

"Come on, jump in," Esme says, moving past Isabella and pulling open the passenger side door with a grunt. The door hinge groans a little in protest. "Gotta move before I get a ticket."

"Thanks again for coming to get me, Esme. I would've been happy to take a train or a cab."

Esme waves off Isabella's thanks, her eyes on the side mirror. "It's far easier to drive," she says with a smile. "A taxi would be prohibitively expensive—and there's always the chance the driver would try to rip you off the second he heard your accent. And you'd have to change trains too many times—I'd worry about you getting lost."

Isabella wonders if she should be offended by Esme's lack of confidence in her ability to get around by herself. Maybe the public transport system is just _that _bad. "Well, still. It's what – a six hour round trip? I appreciate it, really."

"No dramas." Esme slides on a pair of sunglasses, and Isabella follows suit, lowering her own over her eyes. "So, tell me what you've been up to."

As Isabella fills Esme in on the sights she's seen and experiences she's had, she mostly talks to the open window, watching as the harbour city gives way to the suburbs, until they hit the scrub-lined freeway.

Isabella's stories peter out into a humming silence as they travel further north. The air that swirls through the car smells different. Warm earth and eucalyptus lie beneath the smell of bitumen and exhaust fumes.

"Is that a kangaroo?" Isabella points at the carcass lying beside the road.

Esme overtakes a large truck, and glances at Isabella. "Wallaby."

"That's awful."

"Yep." She snorts. "When Jasper was a little boy, he used to make me pull over to check the pouch of every single 'roo we saw by the side of the road. I still do it—but not on the freeway. Too dangerous."

"Did you ever find anything? In the pouches?"

Esme nods. "Usually we'd just call up WIRES, but at one point we ended up with one living in the house for a month. It was insanity." She grins as she tells a giggling Isabella about the chaos one small boy and a kangaroo can create. "Silly bugger still comes around the house, too. Looking for food and whatever. Drives Carlisle mad."

Esme hesitates and her next words are spoken softly. "You know, you look a little like Renée when you laugh."

Isabella bites back the retort that stings her tongue. _I wouldn't know._ Instead she licks her lips. "I imagine – I mean, I think you knew her better than I ever did."

Esme is silent for a few moments. "I'm sorry. That – well, I guess that's true."

"Don't be sorry." Isabella's voice is quiet but steady. "It is how it is. I didn't really know her. I didn't get to spend much time with her until it was too late to really get to know her." She looks at her hands, tangled together in her lap. "Will you tell me a bit about her? I–I only got to know her when she was already sick. What was she like?"

She startles when Esme's fingers wrap around her forearm and squeeze gently. "Of course."

Isabella is barely aware of the scenery for the rest of the drive. She's lost in Esme's stories, greedily gathering up every memory she can—even borrowed ones—of the mother she barely knew. Esme tells her about meeting Renée when she took a year off after finishing university and decided to backpack her way across the U.S.

"Your Mum had just finished high school—I'm a few years older than she was. And she decided to join me." Esme shakes her head, her lips pressed tight. "I tried to talk her out of it, but she was pretty stubborn. So she came, and then she moved out to Denver to go to college and I came home. But we kept in touch and every few years I'd visit her wherever she was, or she'd come out here and visit me."

"I remember." Isabella's eyes are on the fields flashing past the window, but she doesn't see them. "I can remember her telling me about Australia. I was so jealous. The last time she came out, I must've been about seventeen or eighteen, and Dad wouldn't let me go with her because it was my senior year. I sulked for days."

Silence settles over them as Esme flicks on the indicator and starts up a long, unsealed drive. "We're here," she murmurs.

Isabella's stomach turns a somersault. She's been in the country for over two weeks, but it's only now sinking in that she's going to be making this her home for at least the next year.

She trails behind Esme, who is muttering—more to herself than Isabella—about introducing her to Carlisle and getting her set up in the cottage. She follows her into a big building that looks kind of like a high-tech barn. It's cool and dark inside, the ceiling high and lined with shiny silver insulation. Wood barrels in solid-looking frames line the walls.

A stocky guy with sun-worn skin and blond hair that's greying at the temples greets her cheerfully, introducing himself as Carlisle—Esme's husband. Isabella immediately begins to thank him for his generosity in hiring her and offering her a place to stay, but he waves her off with a cheeky grin that looks like it belongs on the face of a man twenty years his junior.

"It's no trouble at all, sweetheart," he says. There's an honesty in his voice that makes the term of endearment warm instead of patronising.

Movement catches Isabella's eye, and she looks up as another guy, clad almost identically to Carlisle, though he's wearing shorts instead of long pants, walks across the back of the room.

"Edward?"

Isabella watches as the tall guy lifts his faded blue singlet and wipes his face on it. She doesn't notice the flex of his arm muscles. She doesn't look at his toned stomach, or notice the trail of hair that points from his belly button into his shorts, not at all. She looks away as he straightens up, her eyes roving across the rows of wooden wine barrels.

"Yeah?" Edward turns, smiling as he notices the petite brunette standing between Esme and Carlisle. He jogs across the cement floor of the barrel room, his eyes on the new girl, who is looking around the room with obvious curiosity.

"This is Isabella. Isabella, this is Edward. He's our assistant winemaker."

"Hey." Edward grins as she looks up at him, dark eyes wide, pink blooming on her cheeks. He offers her his hand.

"Hi." Isabella takes his hand and shakes it firmly. She notices the purple pigment that stains the creases and lines of his skin.

Following her gaze, Edward chuckles. "I've been cleaning out a few barrels." He lifts a leg, pointing at his knee, which is also tinted a deep purple-red. "I'm purple from the waist down."

Isabella's blush deepens as she considers the implications of his statement and Edward makes a funny noise that sounds half like a laugh, and half like he's choking.

Carlisle clears his throat. "It's true. Lucky you didn't get here any earlier, Isabella. This one was stripped down to his grumps, waist deep in marc."

Edward shakes his head, his cheeks hot, while Isabella looks bewildered.

"Grumps?"

Esme laughs. "Underpants."

"Oh. _Oh_." Isabella meets Edward's gaze for a moment before they both look away. _His eyes are the colour of the sea_, she thinks.

Edward shakes his head. "Right. Well, I'm going to just …" Muttering under his breath, he turns on his heel and disappears out the large double doors and into the bright sunshine.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing and following and favouriting :)**

**Thank yous and squooshy hugs to Believey who picks up my excessive use of "okay?" and shows me how to make things flow more nicely. You're amazing, old Phoebe.**

**Shell x**

* * *

**And speaking of, BelieveItOrNot and I wrote a story for the Ho Hey contest. **

_High Maintenance_ by daisyandphoebe

As a young father who's not sure where he belongs, Edward's just trying to get through each day. His daughter is his life and all he thinks he needs. When the girl with the broken oven and busted fire alarm flips his world around, will he invite her into his life? Will she choose to enter? First Place Judges' Choice, First Place Public Vote in the Ho Hey Contest.  
Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance/Drama - Edward & Bella - Chapters: 3 - Words: 27,217

******It's at s/9069910/1/High-Maintenance ... or in my Favourites if ffn eats that link.**


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4._

* * *

Isabella watches Edward's retreating form with her lip between her teeth. She doesn't know whether to be amused or upset by the assistant winemaker's hasty exit. And she's definitely not paying any attention to the broadness of his shoulders, or the curve of his arse, or the flex of his calf muscles as he stalks out of the barrel room.

Esme's chuckle rolls over the top of Carlisle's guffaw, drawing Bella's attention. She looks from one to the other—they seem to be having a silent conversation over her head, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Um." Isabella doesn't really know what to say, but she feels the need to remind them of her presence. She coughs and scuffs the sole of her sandal against the concrete floor.

"How about we show Isabella the cottage?" Carlisle suggests, his eyebrows lifting as he smiles down at his wife.

"Oh! Yes, of course." Esme places a hand on Isabella's shoulder. "I'll drive up, though, so you don't have to carry that pack over. And I had all the stuff you shipped over put in your room already."

Isabella's first thought when she sees the cottage is that "cottage" might be an overstatement. The place is tiny. It's cute, certainly, with its wrap-around porch, and the white paint and forest green trim, and the star jasmine crawling around the balcony rails. But it's _tiny_. She wonders how Carlisle and Esme fit in there with Jasper—let alone how they can possibly have a spare room for a basically-stranger visiting from the U.S.

"Our place is over there," Esme tells her, pointing past the cottage to the enormous brick house that Isabella had somehow failed to notice. It is, perhaps, five hundred metres to the north of this little cottage.

Isabella's relief is short-lived, replaced with confusion.

"We have a spare room in the house," Esme tells her, her eyes dancing, "but I thought you might like your own space. Of course, you're welcome to join us for all meals, but I thought you might like the privacy—and not having to share a bathroom with Jasper."

Isabella blinks, looking back and forth between Esme and the little cottage. She points, "I – you … _This_ is where I'll be living?"

Esme frowns, her hand over her eyes to block the sun's glare. "Is that – I mean, if you'd rather stay up at the hou–"

"It's perfect." Isabella shakes her head, her eyes closed. She opens them warily, like she half-expects the tiny house to have disappeared. "Thank you, Esme. This is – this is too kind of you."

Esme startles as Isabella throws her arms around her, still mumbling her gratitude.

Just as quickly, she pulls back, her cheeks flaming. "Sorry, I'm just overwhelmed. This is so much more than I expected. Thank you, really."

"You're welcome, sweetheart. It's only small, but–"

"It's perfect."

"Well, come have a look inside, hey?"

The cottage _is_ small—one bedroom, a small bathroom, a pokey little laundry, a lounge room, and, at the end of the hall, a combined kitchen and dining area.

"Perfect," Isabella repeats. She can smell the newness of the paint, and she worries Esme has gone to too much trouble on her behalf. When she voices this concern, Esme shakes her head and tells her she had been meaning to fix the place up for years—Isabella's arrival was just the excuse she needed.

After suggesting Isabella have a nap, Esme starts to excuse herself to finish up a few chores and start getting dinner ready.

"Oh," she says. She stops short at the screen door, and Isabella narrowly avoids walking into her. "By the way, I should tell you—if Edward's hanging around, it's because of these vines out here–" she waves a hand "–and not 'cause he's a creepy stalker."

"O-_kay_."

Isabella follows Esme onto the porch as she explains that the rows of dead-looking vines in front of the cottage are an experiment Edward is running; a new varietal he's hoping will grow well in this climate. As she speaks, Isabella catches a glimpse of faded blue cloth and golden skin—Edward is making his way through the rows, stopping here and there, ducking down to inspect something.

Esme puts her fingers to her lips and lets fly a piercing whistle. Edward straightens up and waves.

"I'm just telling Isabella you're not a stalker, okay?" she calls, her voice ringing clearly across the fields.

Isabella snickers as Edward shakes his head, his hands planted on his hips. The plot he's tending starts perhaps the length of a hospital corridor from her front door.

"He's a good guy," Esme tells her, her voice normal volume. "I imagine Carlisle will get him to train you when you start on the Cellar Door. For a young bloke, he knows heaps about wine."

"Okay." Isabella silently shoos away the butterflies in her belly.

"Anyway, get yourself settled, sweetheart," Esme says, patting her arm. "We'll see you about six-thirty for dinner."

* * *

A loud banging pulls Isabella from a heavy sleep. She sits up, bewildered by the darkness cloaking the room. Fumbling beside the bed she finds the lamp switch, blinking at the warm, yellowy light it casts across the walls.

The cottage.

She took a nap.

"Shit," she mutters, picking up her watch. It's seven o'clock. She was supposed to have dinner with Esme and Carlisle half an hour ago.

She climbs out of bed and glances at the puddle of clothes on the floor beside her bed. She groans, running a hand through her hair as she realises she's shucked all her clothes in her sleep—again. She starts to redress, and is pulling her jeans back on when she realises the banging hasn't stopped.

Rubbing her eyes, she makes her way to the front door, flipping on every light in the cottage as she goes.

"Hey." Edward stands on her porch, holding a bottle of wine and a plate covered in tinfoil.

"Uh, hi." Isabella says, speaking through the screen door. "I was just – I need to – I forgot about dinner. I–" she breaks off, covering a yawn with her fist.

"Esme figured you were tired," he tells her with a wink. "So she sent me down with your dinner."

"Oh. I should call – I have a cell phone …" Isabella looks around, as though she expects her phone to sit up and wave at her.

Edward chuckles, and Isabella shivers at the way the sound seems to tumble across her skin. "She said to tell you not to fret, that she'll drop by in the morning, and to kick me out if I'm being a pain in your arse."

"Is that a likely scenario?" She swings the screen door open.

"Huh? _Oh!_" Edward's eyes are dark and shining with laughter as he stands in the light spilling out the door. "Of course not." He extends the arm holding the plate. "Hungry? Esme's a bloody good cook. And this is our Reserve Shiraz from oh-six. Lovely drop." He waves the bottle of wine.

"Thanks." Isabella smiles, taking the plate and the wine. "Do you – um, do you want to come in?" She's a little surprised at herself as the offer slips out, and she feels her cheeks heat.

"Uh," Edward hesitates. Isabella looks at her shoes, and he wonders whether she feels obliged to offer, and if she's actually hoping he'll decline.

"I mean – if you have somewhere to be, don't – don't feel like you–"

Edward smiles as she looks up, licking her lips. _She has pretty eyes,_ he decides. He thinks they're brown, but can't be sure in the limited light. It's not the colour that makes them pretty, though. It's … well, it's something about the way they shine. Edward shakes his head at his thoughts—_shiny eyes, really?_

Isabella takes the movement as him declining her offer. "That's oka–"

"I have to be up heaps early, but let's have one glass."

A slow smile lights her face, like she's surprised that she's glad he accepted. "Okay." Isabella steps out of the doorway. "Oh. I don't even know if I have glasses or a corkscrew."

"I'm almost certain Esme will have stocked wine glasses," Edward tells her as he closes the screen door and follows her down the hallway. "And we seal everything under screw cap, so you won't be needing a corkscrew."

Isabella removes the tinfoil from the plate, revealing what looks like roast beef with gravy, roast potatoes and pumpkin, broccoli and green beans. She slides it into the microwave whilst Edward opens and closes the kitchen cupboards, looking for glasses.

"Told you," Edward says as he sets two wine glasses on the counter. He unscrews the bottle and pours a generous splash of the dark red liquid into each glass.

With a smile, he hands Isabella a glass and raises his own. He likes the way she smiles shyly, but maintains eye contact as they clink glasses. She takes a sip, humming appreciatively. She tucks a strand of her long, dark hair behind her ear, and Edward follows the movement, his eyes tracing the curve of her ear and down her neck, down to the dip in the front of her t-shirt that shows him just the tiniest hint of cleavage.

"This is really nice," she says, lifting her glass.

Edward nods, then realises he has no idea what she's talking about. He blinks.

"The wine," she clarifies. "It's really nice."

"Oh. Yeah." He drags a hand through his hair, and Isabella watches the kitchen light dance on the strands that have been bleached white-blond by the sun. At least, she assumes that's the sun's doing—Edward doesn't exactly seem the type, what with his blue singlets and his mud-caked boots, to spend a few hours in a hair salon having his hair lightened. She smiles at the mental image of him sitting in a hairdresser's chair with a head full of foils.

"It's our flagship wine, you know, so …"

It's Isabella's turn to realize she's not hearing what Edward is saying. "What?"

"The wine," he says, smirking. "This is the wine we're known for."

"Oh." Isabella takes another sip, and spins the bottle so she can read the label. It's simple, understated—white with black lettering.

_Cullen Family Estate  
__2006 Reserve Shiraz_

"Did you – I mean …" Isabella hesitates, wondering if she's about to make a fool of herself. "Did you make this?" She nods at the glass in her hand.

"Nah," Edward rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. "I think oh-six was Carlisle's first vintage after he took over."

Isabella nods, grateful when the microwave beeps, signaling her dinner is ready. Plate in hand, she frowns, looking at the small dining room table. "Do you – have you eaten?"

Edward nods. "Yeah. You go ahead." With a grin, he pulls a chair out for her.

He slouches into the chair opposite her, his eyes on his fingers as they trace the base of the wineglass.

Isabella expects it to be awkward, eating dinner whilst Edward watches, but he seems to sense her unease, and fills the quiet with friendly chatter. He tells her about the estate, how the cottage and Edward's plots—as well as some of the other vineyard blocks—were purchased in more recent years from an ageing neighbour who didn't want to sell to one of the big multinationals that are buying up large tracts of land in the region.

"Anyway," he says, as Isabella puts down her knife and fork and shifts her plate out of her way, "you're probably lucky you slept through dinner tonight."

Isabella tips her head, curious. He's spoken so admiringly about Carlisle and Esme that his statement shocks her a little.

"Jasper," he says, shaking his head. He drains the last of his wine. "He was in a foul mood."

"How old is Jasper?"

"He'll be seventeen soon, I'm pretty sure." Edward shrugs. "He works hard around here, it's easy to forget he's still a kid—until he throws a tantrum. He wasn't happy that Esme invited me to stay for tea."

"Oh."

Edward places his hands flat on the table, pushing himself to his feet. "Don't worry, he'll behave himself around you. He's just got a weird grudge against me."

Isabella wonders if Jasper's jealousy stems from the relationship between Edward and Carlisle. Though she hasn't even met Jasper, she can hear the obvious respect and affection Edward has for his boss.

"Anyway, I should head. Got an early start."

"Oh, okay. Um, well, thanks for bringing down my dinner—and the wine." Isabella follows Edward to the front door.

"You're welcome." Edward grins. "I've got the next few days off, but I think Carlisle wants me to start training you next Monday morning."

"Great."

"I'll see you then." The screen door swings closed behind Edward, and as she listens to his footsteps cross the porch and thump down the steps, Isabella can't help the smile that stretches across her face. She's looking forward to Monday already.

* * *

Come Monday morning, Edward feels a curious sense of anticipation as he pulls the rack of tasting glasses from the dishwasher and dries them carefully, sliding them into the racks that hang above his head. He tries to tell himself it's simply the excitement he feels at sharing knowledge, at the opportunity to teach his favourite subject, that it has to do with the several dozen bottles he's collected for the morning's tasting. It has nothing at all to do with the fact he'll be spending the next two days with that pretty, distracting, American girl.

Isabella walks through doors with a shy smile, her hands twisting together in front of her. Carlisle and Esme took her on a tour of the winery and vineyards over the weekend, and she immediately fell in love with the slated floors and dark timber in the cellar door. The walls are lined with abstract paintings in deep reds and pale yellows—the colours of the wines being tasted—and rows of tasting glasses hang upside down over the bar, light bouncing off them like a strange, rectangular chandelier.

Watching Edward move around behind the bar for a moment, Isabella notices he is wearing a white t-shirt. She hasn't seen Carlisle, Jasper or any of the guys who work on the vineyard in anything but those blue singlets, and she's almost surprised to see Edward wearing something else—until he reaches for something and she sees the telltale outline. She swallows a giggle. "Hi."

Edward looks up at the sound of her voice, smiling at her from behind the bar. "Hey. How are you?"

"Pretty good, thank you. And you?"

"Not too foul. Are you sleeping well? Any jet lag?"

"It kind of just hit this week, actually." Isabella shrugs, and she finds the end of her ponytail, twisting hair around her index finger. "I was keeping crazy hours when I first landed, but now that I'm trying to find a routine it's hit me hard for some reason. I was up at about four this morning–"

Edward chuckles, and Isabella rolls her eyes. "Yes, yes. You're an early riser, I'm sure. Or do you just not sleep? You're too tough to need rest, right? You're just like a machine or something that keeps going all night?"

Edward's eyes widen and his cheeks heat, but he swallows his retort, shaking his head.

Isabella frowns in the silence his witty comeback should fill, before she realises the unintentional double meaning to her words. She swears under her breath, and looks around the empty room. "So, what do you want me to do?"

Edward tries to shake away the images flashing through his mind. "Um. We're–" he scratches his head, still trying to gather up his wits, which seem to have been scattered across the slated floors "–going to taste some wines … Obviously. I mean – _shit_. Can you set out some glasses—two rows of six? We'll do sparklings first, okay?"

Isabella nods, and joins Edward behind the bar. She smiles, her hips twisting to squeeze around him in the narrow space, and busies herself with setting the tasting glasses into two neat lines. Edward pulls six bottles out of the fridge and starts removing their muselets.

"We don't need flutes?" Isabella wonders, watching him pour a small amount of wine from the first bottle into the first glass in each row.

Edward repeats this process with the second bottle, shaking his head. "S'long as they're all the same. Consistency is the most important thing, you know? Reduce the number of variables." He chuckles. "And these are the only glasses we have in here, so they'll have to do."

Isabella watches him fill the glasses, surprised by the variation in colour between the wines.

Setting the sixth bottle aside, Edward ducks down and grabs two silver buckets. He sets one in front of Isabella with a grin. "Spit, don't swallow."

Isabella chokes on a laugh and nods, and Edward grins, pleased he's not the only one thinking dirty thoughts. Scratching the back of his neck, he addresses the glasses in front of them. "As fun as it would be to get sloshed with you, this is work. Plus, it'll dull your senses."

"Okay."

"Right." As Edward picks up the first glass, Isabella can almost see his professionalism slip over him like an apron. "We'll taste first, talk after, okay?"

He nods at the notepad and pen on the counter. "You'll want to keep notes." He tucks his own pen behind his left ear, and picks up the first glass. "Describe the colour, what you smell and taste, how it feels in your mouth."

Isabella closes her eyes and breathes deep, trying to get a grip on her thoughts. _Focus on the wine_, she tells herself. Copying Edward, she examines the colour of the fizzing liquid, smells it, tastes it, and then looks towards the silver bucket. She hesitates, really not wanting to spit in front of Edward, and chances a quick glance at him. He sees her looking, and even though his lips are pressed tight while he swishes liquid around his mouth, Isabella can see the laughter in his ocean-coloured eyes.

Isabella swallows the wine down, and Edward wags a finger in her direction. Leaning over his own bucket, he spits out his mouthful of wine. "You get used to it," he tells her, his voice free of the taunting tone that usually lingers. "It _is_ kinda gross."

"Uh-huh."

"Try it."

Isabella blows out a breath, and takes another sip of wine. She swirls it around her mouth, eyes closed as she concentrates on the flavours. Mentally squaring her shoulders, she picks up the spittoon and forces the liquid between pursed lips, hoping like hell she doesn't miss—or end up dribbling the wine down the front of her shirt.

"See? You're doing fine."

Jotting notes down as she goes, Isabella quickly forgets about the handsome guy slurping and spitting beside her, and moves determinedly through the flight of wines, her senses focused on the colours, aromas, tastes and textures before her. Occasionally, she backtracks, picking up a glass she had already contemplated as she tries to figure out what makes each wine different.

For Edward, much of the sensory analysis he's performing is almost automatic, so he has a small portion of his attention free to observe his new colleague as she sips the wines before her, swishes them around her mouth and then expectorates them. He hides a smile behind his own glass as she tastes the fifth wine—he sees her eyes widen and her nose scrunch up, and he mentally high fives her for her good taste.

"You done?"

"Yes. Uh, I think so."

He grins. "It's okay. There's no exam … _today_." He snickers at the look of panic that crosses her face. "I'm kidding, Izzy-Bella."

"Ass." Isabella slaps at him, snatching her hand away when she feels the warmth of his chest seeping through his singlet top and into her palm. The ease she feels in his presence, the playfulness he brings out in her confuses her a little, but she decides not to over-think it. It feels nice to just _be_.

Smile wide, Edward points at the glasses in front of her. "Which one did you like best, and why?"

He's pleased that she considers her answer for a moment.

"I think this one."

Edward is impressed, but decides to tease her. "'Cause it's pretty and a little bit pink?"

Isabella giggles. "Of _course_." She straightens her shoulders and picks up the glass, sipping it again. "It's very interesting. There's raspberry, yes? But it's—I don't know how to describe it—chalky? And kinda spicy?"

"What kind of spices?" Edward doesn't look at her as he sniffs his own glass.

"Um," Isabella smells the wine again and looks at her scrawled notes, "maybe, like pepper, and ginger." Her voice rises in pitch with her uncertainty.

Edward shakes his head, but can't help the smile that overtakes his face. "Can you taste more than raspberry? Any other fruit?"

"Apricots—no, peaches. And there's a nutty kind of smell, too."

Edward sets his glass down and looks at the ceiling, his fists closing. He rocks forward onto the balls of his feet and makes a strange hip thrusting movement that is as bewildering to Isabella as it is sexy. If he notices her confusion at his peculiar victory dance, he doesn't let on. For a self-confessed novice, Isabella has just demonstrated acute sensory perception. "This is what's called a Blanc de Noir. It's a sparkling wine—Champagne in this case—made from Pinot Noir grapes."

"Aren't pinot noir grapes red?"

Edward nods. "Black, yes. But the colour—in most red varietals—is mostly in the skins. So this–" he points at his glass "–hasn't spent any time in contact with the skins." He goes on to give Isabella a quick lesson in sparkling wine production, the varietals most commonly used, and the methods of carbonation.

Isabella jots down notes as he talks her through each wine, explaining how the production has influenced what appears in the glass. They compare their notes, and Isabella feels relieved that Edward's notes, whilst far more detailed than her own, are quite similar.

They move from sparkling wine to a flight of eight Rieslings, then four Pinot Gris. Isabella is setting out eight glasses for Sauvignon Blanc, when Edward declares it time for a break. "Smoko."

"You smoke?"

He chuckles. "Fuck, no. Ruins your palate. Come on."

His fingers close around her elbow, and he leads her out of the tasting room and into the small kitchen. "Probably not a good idea to drink coffee right now," he says, indicating the shiny chrome espresso machine on the bench, "but you like tea, right?"

"I'm learning to."

"Good."

* * *

The sun is sinking low in the west, painting the sky in streaks of orange and lavender, when Edward locks the doors to the tasting room.

"So, reds tomorrow?" Isabella asks, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

"Yeah. Sweet stuff, too, if we get to it." Edward scratches his head. "We might need a couple days extra. I want to take you through our range, too."

"Oh?" Isabella wants to stomp on those ridiculous butterflies that have taken flight in her belly again, but it's harder now. Now that she knows how easy it is to spend a day in Edward's company, their conversation moving from serious sensory analysis to the exchange of giggle-punctuated anecdotes without any awkwardness.

"Yep. I'll talk to Carlisle about it." He rolls his shoulders and tips his head from side to side, grimacing at the muscle tightness he's feeling. "Come on, then."

Isabella tilts her head at him. "Um, where are we going?"

Swinging a set of car keys around his forefinger, he chuckles, and Isabella can almost feel the air around them vibrating with his laughter. She wonders if she could've absorbed some alcohol without actually swallowing it.

"Brewery. We need pies … and chips and beer."

"We do?"

"Absolutely. Gotta reset that palate."

Isabella can't imagine why pie would be served with chips—or beer—but she's not going to pass up the opportunity to spend more time in Edward's company.

* * *

"You want beef and Guinness, chicken and veg, or steak and cheese?"

Isabella has no idea what Edward's asking her as he stands beside her, arms folded across his chest, so close that her shoulder is pressed against his bicep, and she can smell the spice and sweat clinging to his skin. "Um, beef?"

"'Kay. You grab a table, I'll order."

Isabella reaches into her bag for her wallet, but Edward's hands, warm and still lined with purple pigment, land on her shoulders. Turning her away from the counter, he gives her a squeeze and a slight shove. "My shout."

When he joins her in the small booth a few minutes later, he's carrying two glasses of a pale-coloured beer and wearing a broad smile. "I was going to get us a paddle," he says as he slides onto the seat beside her, "but we'll do that another time when we're less palate-fatigued."

"Uh, sure."

He slides one of the beers in front of her. "It's their pale ale. It's good."

The clink glasses and Isabella grins as she brings the beer to her lips.

"It is good," she decides. "I usually prefer darker beers, but this is really nice."

* * *

"I thought you were bringing me to get like, apple pie." Isabella says. She attempts to point at Edward, but aims her forefinger at the space to his left. She picks up her fourth—or fifth—beer and swallows the remains.

He giggles, his cheeks red and his smile slippery on his lips. "I want apple pie! And ice-cream." He frowns. "But why would we have apple pie for tea?"

"You said we were getting pie!"

Edward blinks and waves a hand over his plate, which is empty but for a few stray chips, pastry crumbs, and smears of gravy. "Pie! Ta-da!"

"This is … It has meat. It's pot pie. _Pie_ is apple. Or cherry, or banana cream."

"Apple pie is apple pie, Izzy-Bella." Edward chuckles at his clever observation. "Come on. I think it's time to go home."

He picks up his wallet and Isabella's handbag, and slides out of the booth, pausing as he stands, like a sailor who has set foot on dry land for the first time in months. He looks at the ground suspiciously, as though it's responsible for the slight swaying of his legs.

Isabella laughs as Edward tucks his wallet into his back pocket and slides her bright orange bag over his shoulder. "That's really your colour."

"Do you think so?" He grins down at her as he helps her to her feet, his breath hot on her cheek, damp and heavy with beer and whisky.

"Yep." Isabella has forgotten what she's agreeing to as she stares up into his eyes. In the low-lit bar, they're colourless, but the smile creases and thick lashes that frame them seem to trap her in their depths.

Edward sways slightly. He is as unable to look away, his blurring gaze taken captive by the soft light that bounces off Isabella's pale face and makes her seem almost luminescent. Her skin reminds him of the blushing, peachy colour some Pinot Grigios develop. His alcohol-soaked brain is convinced her kiss must taste of pears and honey, of white flowers—honeysuckle or jasmine, perhaps—supported by that flinty, minerally backbone so characteristic of the Italian-style Grigios.

Only the strains of Cold Chisel playing over the sound system stop him from testing his hypothesis. He wants to sample her mouth slowly—analyse the taste, the texture of her lips, her tongue—and he wants to do it thoroughly, without Barnsey screaming in the background and the smell of stale beer and old potato chips hanging in the air.

A crash and the shattering of glass startles him from his reverie.

Someone shouts, "Taxi!" amidst the rowdy laughter and talk that fills the pub.

"Taxi," he agrees.

"Huh?" Isabella looks up at him, lips pursing.

_Stop looking at her lips_, Edward tells himself. "We need a taxi. Can't drive." He waves a hand between them. "We're a bit drunk."

"Oh. Okay." Isabella looks around the pub, her brow creased.

Edward snickers. "The taxis are outside," he whispers.

Isabella tries to punch his arm, but even drunk, he's quick on his feet.

"Come on, then." He guides her outside with a hand on the small of her back and a sleepy smile playing on his lips.

* * *

**"Singlet" = tank top, wifebeater, A-shirt. If Bella used any of these words, she'd be corrected pretty quickly. Well, wifebeater is used here, but a lot of people, myself included, find it distasteful.**

* * *

******A/N: **Thank you so much for reading and reviewing and all that good stuff. It means heaps to me.

**My girl, BelieveItOrNot is all kinds of wonderful. She teaches me heaps about writing, and characterisation, and she picks up all my goofy mistakes. Thanks, old Phoebe. **

**Shell x**

**Pssst ... Believey also as a wonderful witfit that she's writing, called "Something True." She updates daily ('cept for Sundays) which I think is pretty amazing, and her characterisations knock me out, every time. You can read it here: s/9103200/1/Something-True (it's in my favies if ffn eats that link).**


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter 5._

* * *

**Hi! ffn was being a little silly last week, and you may not have received the alert for Chapter 4. Just thought I'd mention that before you start reading :)**_  
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* * *

Isabella is surprised when she arrives the next morning to find Edward banging around behind the bar. He slams glasses onto the countertop, the lines on his forehead etched so deep it's like they'll never smooth out. There's a tightness around his mouth, too, like he's holding back a torrent of words.

"Good morning." She speaks softly though she doubts he's hung-over—if she woke up this morning with only a mild headache, it seems unlikely Edward would be suffering much at all.

"Morning." He forces the word through clenched teeth. Isabella watches the muscles in his jaw flex.

Trying to ignore the prickle of hurt, she leaves him to set up, watching with her lip between her teeth and the end of her plait wound around her finger as he picks up a bottle and begins to pour the red wine into the first glasses. She's thrown by the change in him, from the gregarious guy she parted ways with last night, to the seemingly hostile man beside her now. Uncertainty creeps up her spine as she speaks. "That's quite a light colour … compared to that wine you brought around last week."

He nods, setting the bottle down. He places his hands flat on the bar—they're shaking slightly. "Yeah, this is a–" he swallows hard "–Pinot Noir."

The wobble in his voice makes Isabella look at him closely, and she sees past the pressed-together lips and the pulled-tight eyebrows, and it's like a stone has been dropped in her belly—_he's upset_.

"Edward?" She places a hand on his forearm, ducking her head to look up at him. His eyes are lined with red. "Are you okay?"

His eyes on her hand on his arm, Edward considers lying, but he can't find it in himself to tell her he's fine, not when her fingertips are so warm on his skin, curling around his wrist so carefully.

"My aunt." He manages, the words like a croak. Shaking his head, blinking hard, he forces a deep breath through his nose. "She's dying."

Isabella's fingers tighten on his arm. "I'm so sorry," she whispers. She tells herself to breathe—_in, out_. The warmth of Edward's skin beneath her palm anchors her to the present. She focuses on it, his pulse steady under the tip of her middle finger, refusing to let the echoed words—_She's dying_—drag her from the here and now.

"Mum called me early this morning. She – they think … today." He chokes on the word. Today. Now. She could be gone and he wouldn't know.

"Do you need – you should go–"

"No." He shakes his head. "She didn't want … me to see, to be there."

Isabella searches for words of comfort but she knows there are none—what could she possibly say to make this okay? She refuses to lie or spout insincerity; she knows how bitter those platitudes taste.

Edward looks at the glass of wine in front of him. "Do you want to go somewhere?" He is as surprised as Isabella as the question blurts from him.

She doesn't hesitate. "Sure."

Edward nods. He dumps the glasses he just poured into the spittoon. For a moment he wavers, but then he grabs one of the unopened bottles and two glasses.

"C'mon."

Isabella holds the bottle of French-labeled wine and the glasses as he locks up the Cellar Door. He shoots off a text, then flicks his phone to silent. Carlisle will understand—there's no way he can concentrate on the finer points of Tasmania versus Bourgogne today.

* * *

"Wow." Isabella shields her eyes from the sun as she looks out over the valley sprawling beneath her.

Shades of green and brown roll across the floor of the valley, vineyards in their neat lines separated by grassy fields, the shiny, black squares of dams scattered here and there.

"It's so pretty up here."

"Yeah. It is."

Edward is stretched out on the tartan picnic rug, his hat covering his face. He doesn't feel like admiring the view, not today. Today he just wants to immerse himself in the noisy-quiet of the bush—eucalyptus leaves brushing against each other in the breeze that sweeps the hillside, magpies and cockatoos screeching as they cross the valley, the never ceasing buzzing of cicadas and crickets.

He can hear the crunch of leaves and sticks as Isabella walks around. He imagines her looking out over the valley, one hand on her hip, the other shielding her eyes. He pictures the wind lifting the hair that's escaped her braid, trailing it across her cheeks.

He lifts his hat off his face, and despite the weight of worry that's pressing down on his chest, his lips quirk with a smile as the scene he imagined is realised in front of him.

As though she can feel his gaze nudging her, Isabella looks over her shoulder. She gives Edward a small smile.

He sits up with a soft groan, and pats the blanket beside him.

Isabella folds herself to the ground, crossing her legs like a kindergartner might. Her knee presses against Edward's thigh.

They sit in silence for a while, each lost in heavy thoughts of life and death and loss. Edward refuses to pull his phone from his pocket. He doesn't want to watch it. He can't spend the day waiting for it to ring, waiting for _that_ news to flash across his screen.

To distract himself, he picks up the bottle of Bourgogne he grabbed up before they left the winery. He pulls a corkscrew from his pocket and makes quick work of opening the bottle.

"I don't make a habit of drinking at ten o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday," he says. He pours a glass and hands it to Isabella, then fills his own. He sets the bottle in the dirt beside the blanket, twisting it until he's created a little divot to hold it in place.

He lifts his glass and Isabella clinks hers against it.

"A toast?"

Edward chuckles, but it's not a happy sound. "This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste."

Isabella squints at him. "Did you just quote–"

"Hemingway, yeah." Edward looks at her, scratching under his chin and down his throat. He nudges her with his elbow. "Impressed?"

"Maybe a little." She takes a sip of the wine. It _is_ good—black cherry and earthy tones, and something that reminds her of the jar of dried "mixed herbs" her father keeps in the back of the pantry.

Edward noses the glass. "This smells like standing on the balcony at my aunt's old place at Redhead."

"Red head?"

"Redhead Beach." He waves an arm. "About an hour that way. My aunt had this beach shack we used to go to every summer."

"And the wine reminds you of that?"

He nods. "Yeah, there's something reminiscent of seaweed and a sea breeze on the nose. Leather, too. Earth, spice. Black cherries."

"I'd never seen the ocean 'til I came here."

Edward nods. "That's not unusual here. Well, further out west, anyway. Lots of kids grow up never seeing the ocean—never seeing rain even. Every time a bad drought breaks, there'll be a story in the paper about some kid out the back o' Bourke who's five years old and is seeing rain for the first time."

"Wow."

Silence sits between them, its arms around their shoulders.

Edward watches Isabella from the corner of his eye. Her eyes are focused on something far away as she sips at the Bourgogne. He remembers suddenly. "Can I ask – Carlisle and Esme said, uh – your mum–"

She swallows. "Lung cancer."

Edward brings his own glass to his lips, but doesn't take a sip. He lowers the glass, swirls it, watches the legs form. "I'm sorry. My aunt … melanoma, you know? Skin cancer. It got into her lymph nodes, though."

Isabella shifts where she sits. Her knee digs harder into his leg, but the almost-pain is comforting. "I'm sorry."

* * *

When the sun hangs directly overhead, shortening their shadows and warming their skin, Edward heaves himself to his feet. "Wait there." He puts his hat on Isabella's head and crunches over the leaf litter in the direction of his ute.

She stays unmoving, smelling the leather and sweat of his worn Akubra. The sun's rays are fierce, draining colour from the world, and Isabella feels like she's wandered into some strange dream. The insects' incessant buzzing is deafening, yet somehow makes the world seem quiet and empty.

A green tube lands in her lap. "Put some of that on." Edward doesn't say please, but as she uncaps the sunscreen, Isabella can't fault him. She rubs the thick cream into her exposed skin. It smells like beeswax and olive oil—not at all like the chemically stuff she's expecting.

Edward sets a small cooler on the ground and drops back onto the blanket. He takes the tube of organic, natural sunscreen from Isabella and begins to rub it into his own skin. Isabella tells herself not to watch, that there's nothing at all interesting about his long fingers working the cream into his sun-golden skin.

"Help yourself," he says.

She blinks.

He jerks his head toward the cooler, as he runs his hand over his arm, smoothing in the sunscreen.

Isabella feels her cheeks flame. She looks away, opening the cooler and peering inside. "Is this your lunch?"

"Yeah."

"There's a lot of food in here." She counts four sandwiches, several pieces of fruit, museli bars, and two somewhat squished cupcakes.

Edward chuckles. "I'm a growing boy."

After they've eaten, Edward refills their glasses and tosses the empty bottle into his cooler. The occasional cloud slides over the sun, deepening the shadows, before it slides away. The wind picks up, its breath just a little stronger as it curls through their hair and bends the long grass.

"So, uh, you were gonna be a teacher?"

"Yeah." Isabella clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "Elementary school." She leans forward to the edge of the rug and plucks the small yellow flower that's in danger of being mashed under Edward's boots. "What about you? Did you always want to make wine?"

"Nah," Edward says. "I figured I'd go into the mines actually. Make a ton of money and whatever. I did a year of engineering, but it wasn't really something I enjoyed. And I started to get all concerned about the environmental issues and whatever. So I quit and just bummed around for a while. I met this girl–" he scratches his eyebrow "–who hooked me up to work vintage here. Tanya—you're filling her position now. I got pretty interested in everything that was going on, and Carlisle suggested I do my Wine Science degree. He was kind enough to keep me on whilst I studied."

"Are you still studying?"

He shakes his head. "Finished last year."

"Tanya moved to um, Tasmania, right?" Isabella brushes the hair out of her face.

"Yep."

Isabella looks at the flower, twisting the stem between her fingertips. "Were you – I mean, she was your girlfriend, right?" She hurries to explain her assumption, seeing Edward's arm slung across the stunning blonde's shoulder in her mind's eye. "Esme has a picture of the winery staff –"

"In her office, yeah." Edward puts his empty glass down and leans back on his elbows. His hat is angled so that Isabella can't see his face. "We … she was a good friend." He clears his throat. "It was more about companionship than anything else. It suited us until it didn't."

Isabella isn't sure what to say, so she lifts her glass and drains the last of the Bourgogne.

"She's trying to outrun the black dog." He says, his voice quiet now.

"The bl–"

"Depression."

"Oh."

"She was good at hiding it." Edward sighs and sits back up. He pulls his hat off and tosses it onto the grass. Drawing his knees up, he wraps his arms around his legs and talks into his lap. "She's a pretty girl—you've seen her picture. Smart, too. Good family who loved her. And she was a sweetheart, too—really generous and kind. But she was also clinically depressed."

Edward runs a hand through his hair, glancing at Isabella. "She didn't think she had a right to be—depressed, I mean. And she had a few people tell her that. 'You've got everything going for you, how can you be depressed?' People took it, I d'know, personally or something. Like, how dare she."

Isabella watches him as he sighs, looking at his feet. She hesitates, her hand fluttering towards his and then away, uncertain if her comfort is welcome or even needed.

"Did it – I mean, has it helped her – moving to Tasmania?"

"Of course not. It won't help, and she'll eventually figure that out." Edward blows out a breath, his lips pursed. He's looking over Isabella's head at something she can't see, perhaps something that's not even there. "You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that."

Isabella smiles. "Hemingway again."

Edward's lips twitch. "You got me."

* * *

At 2:37pm, Edward's phone vibrates, trapped between his thigh and Isabella's knee. His eyes close and his teeth clench tight.

Isabella doesn't think—it's instinct to reach for his hand and twine her fingers through his. He squeezes her hand to the point of almost-pain.

"Do you want me–"

"Yeah." He nods, nostrils flaring as he fights the saltwater already stinging the corners of his eyes. His other hand covers their joined ones.

Isabella reaches across and slides her hand into Edward's pocket. It's a little awkward, fumbling around with her left hand whilst he clings to her right. She extracts the small device, and thumbs it unlocked.

**From Beth Masen:  
****Kate passed just after midday. Dad and I going to help Irina. Sort out stuff etc. Won't be home for a few days. Love you.**

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

He nods, turning his face away from her. He doesn't let go of her hand.

Isabella watches his shoulders shake, powerlessness weighing on her own. She remembers that phone call. She remembers being dragged from a too-short sleep, fumbling in the dark for her phone. She remembers the nurse's words, delivered with practiced empathy, _I'm so sorry. Renée passed away about half an hour ago._ She remembers sitting in bed, blinking in the three a.m. darkness, half-believing she was still dreaming.

Edward is lost in his own waking dream, his mind still trying to wrap itself around the idea that Kate is gone. That she no longer exists in this physical world. He tries to ignore the image his brain keeps conjuring, his aunt's body in her hospital bed, still attached to the wires and tubes that could prolong her life no more.

It doesn't seem real to him. It can't be. It's just not possible that the Earth could continue to spin, and the sun continue to shine, and the line of ants continue to march over the red-green eucalyptus leaf near the edge of the blanket as people are ripped away from life. Shouldn't he be able to feel it? Shouldn't it register when a person ceases to exist?

Kate is gone. Those hazel eyes closed forever, that barking, rasping laugh silenced. Tyler and Paul no longer have a mother, Irina no longer has a partner, Beth no longer has a sister. Christmas won't feature her trifle again, and Australia Day barbeques will be without her damper and scones. And Edward will never again roll his eyes when she plonks a cask of her beloved Fruity Lexia beside the rest of the wine, and turns her nose up at the bottles of "paint-stripper" he's brought from work.

Edward feels the tears slide down his face, hot at first, then cooling in the strengthening afternoon breeze. He ducks his head, wiping his salt-sticky cheek on his shoulder. Isabella's hand is warm and soft in his—he can feel her pulse in her wrist. He focuses on it as he mourns in silence, the steady throb-throb of blood pumping through her, until her heartbeat might be his own.

Isabella isn't sure how long they sit, blanketed by silent grief—new and remembered—their fingers knotted.

"Edward? Do you want me to take you somewhere? To your parents' – or home or something?"

He sniffles. "Yeah." He untangles his hands and wipes his face with the bottom of his shirt, then stands up slowly, his knees clicking as they straighten. He offers Isabella a hand, and pulls her to her feet. "I might go see Esme, I think." He doesn't release her hand.

She gives him a small smile, adorned with sympathy, then tugs his hand, pulling him close. He doesn't resist. Their embrace is awkward, her arm around his neck, his arm around her waist, and their clasped hands pressed between them.

* * *

Jasper is sitting on the verandah at Carlisle and Esme's place, his perma-scowl in place as he focuses on his iTouch. He looks up as Edward and Isabella climb the stairs, rolls his eyes and looks back at his game.

"Hi, Jasper. Is your mom home?"

He nods. "M_o_m! Isabella's here."

Edward frowns as Jasper smirks.

"Just go on in," Jasper says.

Edward watches his gaze climb Isabella's frame and barely restrains his own eye roll. Jasper catches him watching and shrugs. "You stoned, Masen?"

Edward ignores him. He opens the screen door and gestures for Isabella to precede him.

"What was that about?" Isabella mutters as they step inside. "He was really sweet when I was here the other day."

Edward scrubs a hand over his face. "It's not you. It's because you're with me. He, well, he still hasn't forgiven me for stealing Tanya from him."

Isabella looks at him, her nose wrinkling. Definitely not the reasoning she'd anticipated regarding Jasper's distaste for Edward. He has to be a good ten years younger than Edward. "Isn't he only just turning seventeen? How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven."

"And how old's Tanya?"

"She's a year older than me."

Isabella snorts loudly, then claps a hand over her face. "And you stole her?" Her voice is muffled behind her palm.

Edward smiles despite himself. "Apparently."

"Apparently what?" Esme appears, balancing a basket of wet washing on her hip. Her smile is bright as she looks from Isabella to Edward, then slips right off her face. "Edward, honey?" She sets the basket on the table.

Isabella watches him stiffen—she can almost feel the tension shooting up his spine. His hands curl into fists as he takes a shuddering breath. "Aunty Kate–" He shakes his head, pressing his lips tight. He blinks away the tears, refuses to let them fall.

"Oh, no." Esme presses a shaky hand to her mouth, fingers to her lips, then pulls it away, reaching for Edward, pulling him into her arms. "I'm so sorry, Edward."

His face buried in the crook of her neck, the familiar scents of sorbolene cream and Lucas' paw-paw ointment is as much a comfort as the hands that rub his back like he were a small child. He shakes with the silent tears, his mind playing him a slideshow of memories—flickering like a dodgy old projector between images of the laughing, ice-block sneaking aunt of his youth, and the wasted, cancer-ravaged body he last saw. He tries to push those images away, discard them from the pile of photographs in his memory. He focuses on the older scenes, the ones blurred at the edges and overlaid with the fuzzy glow of youthful optimism and those-were-the-days nostalgia.

In his mind, he suddenly sees Kate on the verandah of the beach house in Redhead. She's lying on her stomach on one of the beat-up old banana lounges. She'd gotten hideously sunburned that day, lying on the beach coated in coconut oil, and was treating it with her favourite home remedy. Tomato slices. She must have had four or five tomatoes spread across her back—Edward remembers joking that she just needed some cheese to complete the look.

His forehead still resting on Esme's shoulder, a strange noise forces its way out his mouth. It might be a laugh, it might be a sob—Edward isn't sure, but another chases it, and another, until he finally lets himself succumb, bawling like a small child in the maternal warmth of Esme's arms.

Wiping a few tears from her cheek, Isabella places a hand on Edward's shoulder, squeezing tentatively.

"I'm just gonna – I'll give you guys some privacy. Let me know if you need anything, okay, Edward?"

Edward feels her squeeze his shoulder once more, and then she's gone. He feels the bang of the screen door swinging closed behind her in his gut.

* * *

**A/N: To everyone who knows all too well what it feels like to have the black dog nipping at your heels - you're not alone. You matter, and there is always hope. Even when it's hard to see, it's there.**

**Thanks so much for reading. I'm so thankful for your reviews and the thoughts you share with me.**

**Thanks, as ever, to my beautiful BelieveItOrNot for her generosity. She betas, edits, catches my mistakes, and leaves me little notes that make me smile. Love ya, Pheebs.**

**Shell x**

* * *

Also, you should definitely look up the TwiHEA Contest if you're in the mood for sweet stories you know will end well. I may have written something for it.

* * *

And ... it was the lovely moirae's birthday this week, and IReen H, BelieveItOrNot, dreaminginnorweigen and I wrote a little story for her, with the help of dragonfly366.

It's called "Then and Now." If ffn eats the link, it's in my favourites.

Then and Now  
Author: DTCPS  
A lot has changed, but a lot hasn't. Once upon a time Jasper fell in love with a girl. Sort of. M for slash. Advisory - Contains a transgender main character.

s/9147385/1/Then-and-Now


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter 6_

* * *

After Kate's death, Carlisle tries to insist Edward take a week off work.

His parents are in Nelson Bay, at Kate's home, trying to help out Irina and the boys. He offers to drive out, but his mother won't hear of it.

So he sits at home on Wednesday morning, staring at the walls.

He cooks up a big breakfast, but the greasy smell of frying bacon turns his stomach. He clingwraps the enormous plate of food and puts it in the fridge.

He channel surfs for a while, but nothing can hold his attention. Kochie and Mel just aren't going to cut it.

By ten o'clock, he's taken to pacing the length of his hallway, hands fisted in his hair.

He tries to take a nap, but his body scoffs at the idea. He can't lie still.

By midday, he can't bear it any longer. He can't stand the thought of having nothing useful to do, and he craves better—more solid—company than his memories and grief.

He steps into his boots and picks up his keys. He's heading for the front door when the doorbell chimes.

He figures it's some idiot trying to sell him Foxtel or switch his electricity provider, and his "No, thanks," is already on the tip of his tongue when he swings to door open.

Brown eyes meet his through the flyscreen.

He blinks and shakes his head.

"I should have called first." Isabella takes a step backwards.

"No." Edward swings the screen door open. "Come in. Please."

Isabella hesitates, her gaze falling from his face to his hand. "Were you on your way out?"

"No."

Her eyebrows lift.

"Well, yeah. But only 'cause I was going crazy here by myself."

She smiles sadly. "Sucks, doesn't it?"

He pushes the door open wider. "Come in."

She doesn't hesitate this time. She steps past him, the hem of her dress brushing his shin, and kicks off her thongs.

"How are – never mind, stupid question."

Edward smiles and shakes his head. He suspects if someone else asked him, he'd find it annoying. He'd probably scowl and have to fight the urge to reply, "How the fuck do you think I'm doing?" But somehow, it doesn't bother him, coming from Isabella.

"I just don't know what to do with myself," he admits. He starts down the hallway, jerking his head to indicate she should follow. "My mum and dad are out in Nelson with Kate's partner and her sons, and yeah." He shrugs.

Isabella looks around. Edward's house is not what she expected—though she's not sure what she _did_ expect.

"Where's Nelson?" She spins a slow circle, taking in the open plan of the house. The kitchen, dining room and living room are all open, light-filled and airy. The whole space can be extended outside, opening out onto the pergola-covered verandah by sliding open the two walls of windows.

"Nelson Bay," Edward explains. "It's pretty much directly east of here. Port Stephens—it's about, aw, an hour and a half drive."

Isabella nods, still wandering around, examining photographs and studying the books crammed into his shelves. "Hemingway," she taps her finger against the books, turning to flash him a smile.

He chuckles. "He's one of my favourites."

"Funnily enough, I'd figured that out." She steps in front of another picture. "Is this Nelson Bay?"

"Nah, that's Redhead Beach. My aunt lived out there before she met Irina."

"Right. You went and stayed there in the summer."

"Yeah." To give his hands something to do, Edward opens the fridge. "You want a beer?"

"Sure, thanks." Isabella moves back across the room towards him and climbs up onto one of the stools at his breakfast bar.

Edward pops the lids off two beers and hands her one. She smiles as she leans across the counter to touch her bottle to his. He watches as she brings the bottle to her mouth, and in some corner of his mind, he's surprised he's even noticing how pretty her lips are, how soft they look, and how much he'd like to be the one licking that drop of beer off them.

"Edward?" She frowns, wiping her mouth, self-conscious.

He shakes himself. "I'm sorry—what?"

He turns away, pulling a packet of corn chips from the pantry. He ducks down and digs out a bowl from under the counter, and dumps the cheesy chips into it.

Isabella reaches for a handful. "I just asked how long you've lived here."

"Oh. Um, I only bought the place towards the start of last year."

"It's really nice."

He swallows down some more beer. "Yeah, I like it here." He frowns. "How did you get here, anyway?"

"Huh? Oh, Esme dropped me over." Isabella waves a hand. "I'm too scared to drive here. Your cars and roads are all _back to front_."

She shakes her head at Edward's snort, looking over her shoulder at the backyard. She can see the telltale rows of a vineyard in the field beyond his fence line. "Is that another winery over the back fence?"

He shakes his head. "Not really. Just a hobby plot. The old bloke who lives there is retired, makes a bit of wine to keep busy. He keeps a few goats as well—makes cheese with their milk."

"Cool."

"I guess." Edward doesn't look convinced. "When I'm that age—like, retired and stuff, I want to live by the sea."

"Nice." Isabella lifts her beer to her lips, her head tipping back. Edward wants to trace his finger down her throat, to press a kiss to that little dent where it meets her collarbone.

He shifts his weight, setting his beer down on the counter. His hands flat on the cool granite, he continues. "I love it out here. It's beautiful. But when I'm old, I want to sit on a jetty and catch fish, and walk on the beach at sunset with a grey-haired, wrinkly old lady holding my hand."

Isabella giggles. "She'll love being called wrinkly."

Edward shrugs. He picks up his beer again, his fingernail finding the edge of the label. "Wrinkles. Grey hair. It's like a …" He pulls the label off and sticks it to the countertop. "It's like an achievement, you know? People think it's ugly, but I reckon – you've lived a lot, seen a lot, done a lot, by the time you get all wrinkled up and faded."

Isabella thinks of her mother, who didn't live long enough to start growing grey hairs, whose smile crinkles were only just starting to become crows' feet. Nostrils flaring, she blinks away tears. "Yeah. You're right." She turns her head away, willing control of her emotions. It's been months—surely this ache should have eased by now.

"Hey." She looks up, surprised to see Edward standing beside her.

He takes her beer and sets it aside. Watching her face, he takes her hand and pulls, steadying her as she slides off the stool.

In silence, he pulls her close, and then her arms are around his neck, and his arms are around her waist.

Silent and still they stand, each grounded by the weight and warmth of the other.

They drop their arms and step away, and though their arms relinquish their hold, something neither can articulate now binds them together.

They spend the rest of the afternoon on the couch, watching bad television and drinking beer until they fall asleep, Isabella's head on Edward's shoulder.

* * *

Edward insists on returning to work the next day.

Carlisle tried to talk him out of it over the phone the night before, so Edward just shows up at the usual time and gets straight into it. He wants to check how the Chardonnay he's got on lees in French Oak is developing.

He's finished up and is heading towards the cellar door when Carlisle spots him.

"Edward? What the f–" Carlisle removes his hat and scrubs a hand through his hair. "Mate, what are you doing here?"

Edward folds his arms over his chest. "I couldn't stay home, Carl. I'd just be sitting on the couch in my grumps, watching shitty telly and drinking beer and being sad. I just – I need to keep busy, okay?"

Carlisle spins his hat around his hand, looking at it as he sighs. "If you're sure. Just – if you need the time, tell me all right?"

"Yeah." Edward scratches the back of his neck. "The funeral's gunna be next Monday, so um … I don't know – do you…?" He trails off, scowling at the dirt on his boots. Asking Carlisle and Esme to come to Kate's funeral makes her passing seem so definite, so irreversible.

"Of course we'll be there, mate." Carlisle squeezes his shoulder.

Edward mumbles his thanks, fiddling with the unraveling hem of his singlet. "I'm gunna go take Isabella through the reds we were going to do on Tuesday."

"Okay. I meant to ask but–" Carlisle waves a hand to indicate that life got in the way. "How did she do, anyway? You did whites, didn't you?"

"Yeah, and just a few sparklings." Edward can't help the smile that overtakes him—Isabella is a natural. "Pretty sure she's got a better sense of smell than I do. Good palate, even if she doesn't know the lingo. And she's interested in learning." Wanting to learn is more important than any natural abilities in Edward's book.

"Good."

Edward toes a pebble on the concrete path. "I was thinking. I'll take her through stickies and fortifieds tomorrow, our range on Monday, and maybe a few days next week … I might—if it's okay with you—take her to a few places–" he circles a finger in the air "–around here. Give her a feel for the region."

Carlisle, who has been examining the brim of his hat as Edward speaks, looks up at him, squinting against the sun. "Sounds good. Very … _thorough_." He nods once and dons his Akubra. "I'll leave you to it then. I'll be out in the Semillon blocks if you need anything."

* * *

When Isabella realises she's been in Australia for six weeks, it catches her by surprise. On one hand, she can't believe it's mid-November—the time seems to have flittered and skipped past her too quickly. On the other hand, she can't believe she's _only_ been here six weeks.

The fact she's only been at Cullen Family Estate for a month seems particularly strange to her. Whilst there are still so many things she's learning about life here—and not just about wine—in many ways, she feels settled here.

The linguistic quirks of Australian English still trip her up, and she's still adamantly refusing to attempt to drive on the wrong side of the road in a back-to-front car. She's still feels the sting of offense at times, too, when she's uncertain as to whether she's being patronised or whether the over-familiarity is a peculiarly Australian thing. And the constant teasing—she's still not used to that. And she decides she will probably never get used to the idea of Christmas trees appearing around the place just as the coming summer really starts to make it's presence known.

Carlisle wants to put up decorations in the Cellar Door, but is quickly vetoed by Esme, Edward and Isabella. Isabella declares that since she is the one who has to spend the most time in there looking at the damn things, she should decide when they go up. She's surprised when the other three look at each other, shrug, and agree.

"Fine," says Carlisle. "But that means you're now in charge of putting them up, too."

"I bloody hate Christmas trees," Edward mutters. Isabella scrunches her nose at him. "What?" He laughs. "Why'd ya want a tree inside? Trees are outside animals. They should stay outside, and like, not wrapped up in alfoil and lights."

Isabella snorts, but says nothing. She unfolds the newspaper and spreads it out behind the counter. Monday mornings are quiet in the Cellar Door—unless it's a public holiday. She flips through the pages absently, not really paying much attention to what she's reading. She pretends to be fascinated by an article on Julia Gillard's new Workplace Relations policies, when really, she's watching Edward from the corner of her eye.

He's doing … very little. As far as she can tell. Hip against the counter, he's thumbing through something on his phone. Her "shouldn't you be doing something useful?" is on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it. He might listen.

She flips a few more pages and pulls a pen from the jar of them she keeps by the EFTPOS machine.

_Well I'm so above you  
__And it's plain to see  
__But I came to love you anyway  
__So you tore my heart out  
__And I don't mind bleeding_

Edward frowns, looking around for the source of the music. He looks at the orange bag stashed under the bar. "Hey, Izzy-Bella, I think your mobile's ringing."

She looks up from the crossword. "Yep."

"You don't want to answer it?"

"Nope." She sighs, dropping her head onto her arms. When she speaks, her voice is muffled. "It's my ex. He started calling this week. He's trying to guilt me into coming home."

The little birds that seem to have taken up residence in Edward's stomach don't like this idea, they swoop and dive in protest. "Why – I mean, what do you have to feel guilty for?"

She lifts her head, her chin in her hand. "So my dad got married earlier this year, and he and his wife are expecting a baby—she's like twelve years younger than him or whatever. So Jake's all, 'They're gonna need your help,' which is totally not true, by the way, Sue would hate having me around. And anyway, even if it was true, I'm not sure it's my responsibility. They wanted to have another kid, they can manage without me changing diapers and being a live in baby-sitter."

Edward smiles as she folds her arms, looking at him like he was the one who suggested she ought go home. "Why is this any of – is it Jake? Why's it his business?"

"Oh, right. Well, Sue is Jake's aunt."

"So …" Edward squints at her. "Jake is your, kinda your cousin?"

Isabella slaps his arm, her nose wrinkling in disgust. "Step-cousin, if that's even a thing. Ew, Edward. Seriously. You know that means we're related by marriage not blood, right?"

He chuckles, dodging as she tries to punch him. "Don't hold your fists like that if you're gunna punch me. You'll break your thumb. Like this, see." He demonstrates, holding his fists up like a boxer. "And yeah, I know you're not really related. This chick I went to school with—she was dating this bloke, and her mum met his dad, and they hooked up. Ended up getting married. So she was like, dating her stepbrother. Their parents tried to make them break it off, but they were like, 'why the hell should we?' 'Cause they were together first, you know?"

Isabella nods. "That's tricky."

"Yep. So … your phone is still ringing."

"Yep." Isabella looks at her bag, but doesn't move.

Edward scratches his head. "Why not just tell him to rack off? 'Thanks for your concern but I'm totally fine here, and plus, I get to hang out with this heaps awesome dude every day, and he's so much more handsome than you.' Something like that."

"Aww, you think Jasper's handsome? You should tell him that."

Isabella giggles as Edward's mouth opens and closes. "You're so funny, Izzy."

"Izzy?" She scoffs, her nose scrunched up again.

"Not Izzy?"

"There's only one person who calls me Izzy, and he _won't stop fucking calling me_!" Her voice rises as the same music starts up yet again.

"Ah," Edward reaches for her bag. "Want me to tell him to get lost?"

She steps closer, and grabs his wrist. "Not really."

"Fine … Hey, is that The Black Keys?"

Isabella nods. "Yeah, I–"

"Shhh." He holds a finger up as he listens intently. "Did you – did you make his ringtone … _Lonely Boy_?"

She scrapes her teeth over her bottom lip, trying to hide back the slightly bashful smile her lips want to form. She nods. "Yeah."

Edward snorts, before dissolving into laughter. "You–" He shakes his head, more laughter bubbling up his throat. "I can't believe–" He breaks off again, doubling over as he continues to chortle. His face turns bright red and Isabella is contemplating dumping the jug of iced water sitting on the bar over his head when he stands up and sobers abruptly. "That's so _mean_."

"It's – I mean – He won't–" Her gaze falls to her toes.

Edward hooks a finger under her chin, and tips her head up so she looks into his eyes. "Relax. I'm teasing you. It's heaps funny."

"Okay," she whispers. She doesn't move, and neither does Edward. They continue to watch each other, searching for something in one another's gaze, wondering—_Do you feel it, too?_

Muffled voices and the click-clack of high-heeled shoes on the concrete outside drag them reluctantly back into their surroundings. Edward drops his hand but doesn't step away.

He speaks low and fast, like he has to ask now, like it can't wait. "Can I take you out? On a date?" His arms fold over his chest.

Isabella licks her lips and gives him a tiny smile, just a twitch of her lips. He wants to kiss her just there, on the corner of her mouth, the place where her smile starts. "I'd like that."

"Yeah?" His smile is not hesitant. He beams, stoked. "Tomorrow night?"

She nods, her eyes on the door as it swings open to reveal a party of six women in heels and corporate-looking suits.

"I'm outta here," Edward mutters. He places a hand on Isabella's hip as he ducks behind her. "I'll come back after you finish up, 'kay?"

Her "okay," is barely out of her mouth before he's gone, slipping out from behind the bar and almost running out the door.

Isabella feels a strange prickle running up her spine as she watches the women giggle and nudge one another in his wake. She raises her voice and forces their attention back inside, and off the sexy winemaker striding across the grass towards the lab. "Good afternoon, ladies. Welcome to Cullen Family Estate."

* * *

Edward walks slowly down to his little plot, soaking up the contrast of the warm sunshine and the cooling breeze as it dances over his skin. It's fitting really, he decides—kind of how Isabella makes him feel, warm, but nervous.

He thinks about that, turning the idea over in his mind, like it's something he can pick up and examine in three dimensions. The warmth is easy to understand. _She_ is warm—friendly. Shy and kind of reserved at times, yes, but she's genuine, and being around her is natural, easy, right.

The breeze though, that makes the hairs on his arms prickle—Edward doesn't want to think about that. He doesn't want to think about the implications of the fact her time in Australia—in his life—has an expiry date. Not yet.

He tries to push brown eyes and shiny hair and pink lips and sweet laughter from his mind as he walks through the rows that line his plot, secateurs in hand.

The Tyrian is growing vigorously. The rootstocks are strong and healthy, resistant to disease and nematodes, tolerant under the harsh conditions. While Tyrian would grow well on it's own roots, grafting it in means he won't have to wait three to six years before he can make wine—he ought to be able to harvest the vintage after next.

He's been vigilant over the last few weeks, and it's paid off. The scion shoots are growing fast, and many of them are long enough to tie to the trellis wires—training them to grow in such a way as to maximise fruit production, and make things like pruning and harvesting more efficient.

Edward works carefully, pruning away any suckers from the rootstocks—they compete with the graft and reduce its growth—and tying the sufficiently long shoots to the wires. He plucks off new shoots and tendrils to direct all the plant's energy into beneficial growth.

It's slow work, but it's satisfying.

But as he travels up and down the rows, with the sun blazing overhead, and sweat dripping down his back and darkening his singlet, the small smile curving his lips has nothing to do with his satisfaction over the progress of his grapevines.

_She said yes._

* * *

**A/N: Oh yeah. Thongs = flip-flops. Skimpy knickers = G-string. Bella's not dropping her panties for him just yet ;)**

**And yep, fans of _The Black Keys_, Edward did miss the point. ;)  
**

**Thank you so much for reading and reviewing - you're all so very lovely.**

**Big kisses and thanks to Tam, who catches my errors and leaves me little notes that make me look like this :D , and also tumbles me until I smile when I'm feeling down. I'm blessed to have her in my life.**

**Love, ****Shell x**

* * *

**P.S. If you like ticking boxes and voting for stuff, _Terroir_ is up for Fic of the Week over on tehlemonadestand dot net**

**Just replace "dot" with a full-stop (period). And yeah, "teh" is correct.**

**(Vote for BelieveItOrNot's _Two Weeks_ whilst you're there. Haven't read it? Run, don't walk, into my favourites.)**


	7. Chapter 7

**My thought and prayers are with the people of Boston, and those of you who have friends and family there. My love to you all. **

* * *

_Chapter 7_

* * *

Isabella is on the edge of sleep, her eyelids growing heavy, her mind unraveling and chasing dreams, when her phone starts to sing beside her. A burst of irritation pulls her back to wakefulness and she sits up, looking at the bluish glow of the screen.

_Oh, oh-oh I got a love that keeps me waiting  
__Oh, oh-oh I got a love that keeps me waiting_

Isabella groans, her hands in her hair, tugging through the strands. She blows out a breath, and fumbling for her patience, she flicks the lamp back on and snatches up her phone.

"Jacob, it's midnight."

She's been trying to forget the sound of his voice, deep and soft but coloured so often now with a childish whine. She used to love it, the playfulness, the sweet words that it wrapped around her, but now it has become the sound of chastisement and complaints. "No. It's eleven, isn't it?"

"If you say so, Jacob. You'd know better than I. The three clocks I can see from my bed must be wrong." Isabella knows she's being rude, but right now, she doesn't care.

"Oh. Daylight savings ended here the weekend before last. I must've forgotten to adjust for that."

"Uh-huh." Isabella buries her head in her hand. "What's up?"

"I can call you back in the morning, if you want?"

Better to get it over and done with now, Isabella decides. "I'm awake now. What do you need?"

Jacob sighs, his breath harsh against the handset Isabella imagines he's probably got tucked under his shoulder as he fixes himself breakfast. "Have you given any more thought to the things I asked you to think about?"

"No."

"Izz–"

"I mean, yes, I've thought about it, but no, I haven't changed my mind."

Jacob is silent for a beat, and Isabella wonders which weapon he'll pick up first. "So … have you spoken to Charlie and Sue about this? You're happy to just leave them to struggle with a new baby—while your dad works crazy shifts and leaves Sue with no help?"

Isabella flops back onto her pillow, eyes on the ceiling. "Actually, I have."

"You–"

"I've told you this before, Jacob. Dad has no problem with me being here, for as long as it makes me happy, and Sue doesn't need or want me around. She wants Dad to herself when the baby comes. To be honest, it's better for all of us if I'm not around. Let them do their family thing, start over or whatever." Isabella knows that her father won't ever consider her less important than his new family, but she's also sure that, for Sue's sake, it's better for her to be on the other side of the world and not getting in the way.

"They're just–"

"No. They're not _just saying that_."

"What about school?"

She rolls her eyes. "We've been over that, too. I'm not sure I want to teach anymore. Man the fuck up, Jake, and just say what you want to say to me."

She's almost surprised when Jacob asks the question she knows lies under all his other excuses and cajoling.

"What about me?"

She almost says the first thing on her mind—_What about you?_—but she swallows her bitter snark. She realises that this conversation needs to happen, that it might actually be her opportunity to put this to bed once and for all.

Before she speaks, she makes herself remember the good times; their laughter ringing through Jacob's tiny apartment, soft caresses and tender words as they made love, his arms holding her tight when her mother passed away. "Jake, look. I loved you, but it's over. I have to–"

"Lo_ved_?"

She nods, her smile sad, but then remembers he can't see her. "Yes. I loved you, Jake. You know I did. And in some way, I guess I always will." She closes her eyes against the clichés flowing from her lips. "But I've changed, I want–"

She's almost relieved when Jacob interrupts, because she's not entirely sure what she wants. His question, however, is the one she realises she should've anticipated. "Is there someone else? Already?"

Her teeth digging into her bottom lip, Isabella covers her eyes with her palm. She wonders how honest to be. On one hand, it's really none of Jacob's business; they broke up, and she made it clear from the start that she couldn't see them getting back together. She also takes no pleasure in his pain, she doesn't enjoy knowing that he's not moving on, that he's clinging on to the hope that she'll come "home" and they can pretend the last six months or so months didn't happen. It's that hope he's still holding on to, that ghost of their past relationship that he keeps trying to breathe life into, that motivates her next words. She hopes that, though her words will sting now, they'll be antiseptic for his heart.

"Yeah. There is."

Silence greets her admission.

"Jake?"

"How long?"

"What?"

Jake's voice is hard, stamping out each syllable. "How long? How long have you been fucking him, Izzy?"

Isabella chews her tongue. _He's just hurt,_ she reminds herself. "It's not like that."

He laughs, just a huff of bitter air. "Of course it's not."

"It's not like anything yet. We – he only just asked me out today." Telling him they have a date planned for tomorrow night seems unnecessarily cruel. As she thinks about it, excitement bubbles up inside her again.

"And you said yes, I suppose."

"Yeah, Jake, I did. I really–" She breaks off. Jacob doesn't need to hear that she really likes Edward.

"Why, Izzy?"

She's puzzled by the question. "Why did I say yes?"

"Why …" Isabella can imagine him at the breakfast table in his apartment, head resting in one hand as he holds his phone to his ear, his cereal becoming a soggy mess as it goes untouched. "Why start something you can't finish?" The words seem to burst out of him and into her eardrum. "You're only there for a year—less than that now. You don't - I _know_ you, Iz. You fall hard and fast … I mean, you told me you never understood casual dating. Even Tyler – you were only fifteen when you guys started dating and that went on for two years. We were together for three. Why start something with no future and end up with your heart broken? Just … why can't you just … I still – Izzy, don't do this to me."

Frustration pushed the words from her mouth. "Jake. I'm sorry. I don't want you like that. I'm so sorry." She sighs, rubbing circles on her temple as she stares at the shadows draped across her ceiling. "Maybe this will go nowhere. But maybe it will. It feels right, and I want to see what happens."

"But there's – it's got no future. Why waste your time? Denver to Sydney." He snorts. "You can't seriously think a relationship would survive that kind of distance?"

"No, I don't."

"So why bother? No matter how great he is—he's not worth it if it's just going to end up with you heartbroken when you come back home."

Isabella's admission is more to herself than it is to Jacob. "I don't think I'm coming home, Jake."

Anger and hurt coat his every word. "Your fucking visa was only for twelve damn months, Isabella. How the fuck are you going to stay there, huh? Don't be fucking stupid."

Something inside Isabella snaps. "Maybe I'll marry him." Regret simmers in her belly, corrosive and sour, as soon as the words leave her mouth. They hang in the air, underlined by Jacob's silence. An apology is already forming in her throat.

"He can fucking have you." The line goes dead.

Isabella throws her phone back onto her nightstand, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. Frustration, anger, regret, and disappointment race each other through her veins until she's dizzy and uncertain as to which she's feeling.

Rolling over, her face buried in her pillow, she lets herself cry for a few minutes. She knows Jacob was trying to hurt her—and he succeeded. She regrets losing her temper with him—she knew those words would cut deep.

Her mind teases her with an image she's been pushing away for two years now—Jacob on one knee, rose between his teeth, and an enormous, glittering cubic zirconia ring in a black velvet box. It still makes her cringe. The tacky scene he'd created, the look on his face as she shook her head and tried to find the gentlest words possible to turn him down, the guilt that seeped into her veins like poison, making her second guess herself time and again. She squeezes her eyes closed, trying to draw a curtain on the images that her mind seems determined to dredge up.

Thankfully, he hadn't imitated Charlie and proposed in public. So there had been no one around to see his smile fall and his cheeks flush with shame when she shook her head and told him she couldn't marry him. She'd told him they were too young, that she wasn't ready. Those things were true. She told him she hoped he'd ask her again someday. That was a lie.

She'd loved Jacob, but somewhere along the line, even before her mother got sick, she changed, and what she wanted out of life didn't match what he wanted anymore. Love wore away, leaving only habit and obligation.

Jacob's hurting now, and that grieves her but she hopes, in time, he'll realise she's not the girl he thinks he loves. She hopes that will free him to find someone who can make him happy, someone who will love him as he should be loved—not because they _should_, but because they want to.

Sitting up, she picks up her phone and thumbs across the screen for a few moments. Edward was only half right about the ringtone she'd selected for Jake. She hadn't picked it to make fun of Jacob, but of herself. Guilt and self-chastisement had been behind its selection: the nasty girl breaking the good guy's heart. _I should've never have told him to ask me again_, she thinks. _I should've ended this years ago, not given him false hope for a future together. _

Having restored the ringtone to a generic _bring-bring_, Isabella rolls over again, wiping away the moisture that remains on her cheeks. She takes a deep breath, and another face flickers through her mind, bright and vivid, making her memories fade into the background. Sea-blue eyes sparkling with laughter, a cheeky grin showing white teeth. She smiles back in the darkness.

* * *

Isabella looks herself over in the tiny bathroom mirror. Her conversation with Jacob is so far from her mind that it might have happened a year ago, rather than last night. Her mind is crammed with first-date triviality. Is she wearing too much make-up? Not enough? Is this dress too formal—or too casual? She wishes Edward had been more specific in the details her gave her—or that she'd stopped flirting long enough to ask for them.

He told her he'd come for her at seven o'clock, and to wear "something pretty." She'd lifted her eyebrows and told him she didn't own any ugly clothes, thank you very much—and then enjoyed the way the colour rose on his cheeks as he stammered and shook his head. Her giggle had snapped him out of it, and he'd stepped close, hands on the counter either side of her waist, trapping her against the bar.

"Excellent," his voice was an octave lower and several shades darker. He swallowed hard, and then grinned, mischief lighting his eyes. "Then you've got no excuse to not be ready when I get there." He chuckled as she gaped at him for a moment before she snorted in a decidedly unladylike manner. She felt his smile against her cheek, and then he disappeared back out into the vineyard with a wave, his chuckle lingering as the door swung closed behind him.

Isabella is killing time at seven o'clock, sipping a glass of water. She's not thirsty.

At ten minutes past the hour, three raps against the frame startle her and she licks her lips as she's rushed by butterflies. The action reminds her that she didn't apply lipstick. The butterflies double their antics as she remembers why.

She opens the door with a smirk, with every intention of giving Edward shit about being late because he spent too long picking out _his_ clothes. The taunt dies on her lips when she catches sight of him.

Isabella has only seen Edward in long pants once—at his aunt's funeral—and given the circumstances, she wasn't really paying any attention to his appearance. She'd been more worried about his emotional well-being than the cut of his clothes.

But now, he stands on her porch in jeans, and she can't for the life of her figure out how seeing _less_ of him is somehow _more_ attractive. Her eyes trace down the dark denim … to his bare feet. She blinks.

"You look beautiful."

His words drag her eyes back up to his face. The sun is sinking over his shoulder; he's backlit by red and gold.

"Thank you."

He grins, flourishing the huge, vibrant red flower he'd evidently been hiding behind his back.

"That's gorgeous." She takes it with a smile. Hand on his forearm, she lifts her face and presses a kiss to his cheek. Her stomach rolls over as her lips meet his skin. "Thank you."

"It's a Waratah," he says. He tugs on his ear. "It's the state flower – you know, like the emblem or whatever. It's uh, well, it's not strictly legal to go around picking them, but yeah…" He shrugs.

Isabella can't tell in the fading light, but she thinks he might be blushing.

"Uh, thanks. You know, for breaking the law to bring me a pretty flower." She snickers.

He licks his lips. He speaks quietly. "Nothing else felt special enough."

Isabella's stomach bounds off a diving board, turns a few somersaults and goes into freefall. "Th-thank you."

Edward nods. He blows out a quick breath and squares his shoulders. "Are you ready to go?"

Isabella slides the short, thick stem of the flower into the glass of water she's still holding and sets it on the table by the door. "Yep."

Edward looks her up and down. "Those shoes are sexy as hell, but you might not wanna wear them. Maybe. I dunno."

"Um?"

He looks at them, torn. They really are sexy, stretching her legs and making her calf muscles contract. But he also isn't particularly keen on the idea of her twisting an ankle. "Can you walk on grass in them?"

"Yes? Well, it depends how far we're walking."

Edward scratches his top lip, his eyes still on her feet. "I know. Wait here, okay? Give me like, five minutes."

"Uh, okay."

Edward disappears off the verandah, leaving Isabella wondering what the heck she's going to do with herself for the next five minutes—which she's certain are going to feel more like five hours.

She looks at the Waratah on her side table. It's not the prettiest flower she's ever seen, but it's certainly unique. There's a kind of rugged beauty to it, she decides. She picks it up in its makeshift vase and wanders back into the kitchen, setting it on the countertop with a smile, Edward's words repeating in her mind: _Nothing else felt special enough._

Picking up a cloth, she wipes down the already clean counter. She washes her hands. She walks back down the hall. She steps out onto the balcony to wait for Edward.

The sun has sunk completely behind the mountains when he bounds back up the steps with a grin. "Okay," he says. You gotta turn off all the lights."

"What? Here?"

"Yeah." He doesn't wait for her to agree. He slips in the screen door. One switch, two. He plunges the whole house into darkness. "You ready?"

Isabella is completely bemused, but she answers truthfully. "Yes."

"Okay. Jump on." He moves in front of her and bends his knees a little.

"Um – what?"

He bends lower. "Jump on."

"You're going to give me a piggy back ride?" Her voice lifts with uncertainty.

"Uh-huh."

Isabella takes a deep breath and complies. She pushes her hands down on his shoulders and jumps, wrapping her legs around his waist. He sways a little but steadies himself easily.

"Hold on, okay." Isabella's arms tighten around his neck. "Not too tight." His hands slide under her knees.

Her arms hooked around Edward's neck, her thighs pressing into his waist, Isabella isn't worrying that she's too heavy, or whether he'll drop her as he walks slowly down the steps and onto the grass. She's not even wondering where he's taking her. All she can focus on is the feel of his work-roughened fingers on her skin. His thumbs rest on the top of her leg, the other four curled underneath. As he walks, his thumb slides across her knee, brushing softly over smooth skin.

Goose bumps gather as Edward carries her towards his little Tyrian block. He feels the tiny bumps rising under his fingertips. "Are you cold?"

"No." Her voice is a whisper.

As Edward carries her down one of the rows of trellised vines, she can see four flickering lights in the gathering darkness.

"Okay." Edward bends a little so she doesn't have as far to drop. She unwinds her legs from his waist and slides off him awkwardly—thankful both that his back is to her, and that she manages to land on her feet, not her backside.

"I, uh, I hope this is okay?" Edward waves a hand as she steps beside him.

The picnic blanket is squeezed between the two lines of grapevines, a lantern perched on each corner, a familiar cooler standing guard. Isabella smiles. "This is lovely."

The spikes of her heels sink into the grass as she steps carefully towards the rug. "I don't think I would've made it—walking," she says with a laugh. "I could've just put some flats on, you know." She's glad she didn't.

Edward shrugs. He's also glad she didn't.

Between the vines, Isabella understands why Edward had her turn the lights in the cottage out. As they eat crusty sourdough and smoky ham, fig paste and various artisan cheeses that Edward tells her are from the dairy just up the road, her eyes keep drifting up to the night sky above them, the inky blue expanse pierced with stars.

He pours glasses of a ten-year-old Spanish Tempranillo, smiling when Isabella identifies pencil lead and black currants, dry herbs and olives. "Your palate's amazing for someone who's heaps new at wine tasting." His lips curl into a smile as Isabella ducks her head. The compliment has the butterflies fluttering their wings where they're perched in her belly, poised to take flight.

The enclosing vines create an intimacy that contrasts with sky stretching overhead, and they talk quietly as they eat, exchanging anecdotes and histories. Edward tells her about growing up on the land and on the beach, Isabella speaks of being raised by a single father, interrupted occasionally when her mother burst back into their lives to take her on an adventure or simply rearrange all the furniture in the house before she left again, not to be seen for a year.

In the dim light, it's easier to peel back the layers and share secrets. They talk about first kisses and first times, first heartbreak and secret fears. Isabella is surprised to know Edward doesn't want to own his own winery someday, that he's happy working for someone else.

"Nah," he says. "I'm happy working for someone else—as long as they're happy to give me a bit of freedom. Carlisle's been incredibly gracious, and not just with this block." He gestures to the vines creeping on their trellises around them. "He's happy for me to take risks, try different things. I suppose it helps that he's independently wealthy—he doesn't depend on the winery for an income, so he's got heaps more freedom than a lot of the guys around here. He's got the luxury of being able to fail. Or–" he laughs "–he's got the luxury of letting me fail … What about you, though? What are your plans? You don't want to teach?"

Isabella shakes her head. "No. I don't think so. I don't – I have no idea."

"You'll work here for the year. Do you know what you'll do next?"

She sighs, leaning back on her hands and looking up at the galaxy of stars swirling above her. "Well, my visa is for twelve months, but I can only be employed by the same company for six months."

Edward's fingers twitch. He curls them into balls in his lap. "So, you're only here for another – what four or so months?" He watches her face carefully in the flickering light. She's smiling.

"No. I'll be here the full twelve months. I think I'm employed by Cullen Family Wines for the first six months, and then by … uh … Cullen Vineyards or something."

Edward nods. "Yeah, the Cellar Door is run as a separate business to the rest of the winery. That makes sense."

Isabella laughs. "I'm glad it makes sense to you. But after that – well, Carlisle can sponsor me, or I can go back to the States, or I can travel elsewhere."

He notices she doesn't mention going _home_.

"Anyway," she waves a hand in dismissal. "That stuff's ages away. It'll sort itself out, I'm sure."

"Can I ask you something?"

She looks at Edward, head tipped to the side. He's frowning at his hands, so she lets the _You just did_ joke slide. "Sure."

"Esme told me you used the money that was for college to cover your mum's medical bills?"

"Not exactly." Isabella picks up her glass of wine and takes a sip. She sighs. "I would have, but by the time she contacted me to tell me she was sick it was too late—she was in palliative care. I used that money to pay rent and buy groceries and whatever so I didn't have to work for the last six months of her life. So I could spend all that time with her. Some of it went to her bills, but a lot of it was just so I could have that time with her."

She looks at Edward. The lantern light flickers on his face, casting shadows then chasing them away. "I didn't get to spend a lot of time with her before she was sick. Two weeks here, a few days there—whenever she turned up in Colorado. I didn't – I don't resent that. She's my mom and I loved her. And knowing I didn't have much time left with her – college just didn't seem like a priority. I can always go back."

He reaches for her hand and squeezes it once. "I understand that."

She smiles. "I'm twenty-three. I've still got time to figure things out."

"Of course."

She giggles. "Sorry about this," Isabella says. "I know it took a lot of effort to get me here." She straightens her legs and kicks her shoes off. Edward laughs and grabs her ankle, pulling, wanting her close.

"You're scrunching up the blanket," she tells him with a smile.

He chuckles, his thumb circling the knobbly little bone inside her ankle. He sweeps his fingers up her calf, his eyes on hers, watching for any sign that his touch is unwelcome. She smiles, goose bumps chasing his fingertips as they move across her skin.

Her quiet, "Come here," has his heart jumping into his throat, beating hard and fast. He scoots towards her, until he can feel the warmth of her thigh seeping through the denim of his jeans. Sitting side by side but face to face, Isabella's fingers find the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric, gripping it, pulling him, close, until there is only a whisper of space between their lips.

His hands find her neck, fingers braiding themselves into her hair, his thumbs caressing the line of her jaw. Edward inhales deeply. The subtle floral fragrances—jasmine and gardenia—that cling to Isabella's skin are sweet and ethereal against the Valley's rich scents of earth and wood and vegetation.

She holds him there for a moment, savouring the anticipation, his breath on her lips, his eyes blinking closed, before she presses her mouth to his. The kaleidoscope of butterflies take wing inside Isabella as her lips brush against Edward's.

Soft kisses become harder, deeper, searching. Give and take. He swallows her gasp, she pulls him closer, climbing clumsily into his lap. He barely notices her knee digging into his thigh as his hands move to her hips, gripping, pulling her close.

It takes a number of awkward manoeuvres, but they find their way, Isabella's legs locking around Edward's waist as she sits in his lap. She kisses him hard, her hands tugging at his hair, forcing his head to tilt back. His hands can't settle, sliding over the curve of her hip to her waist, tracing circles on her back, even risking a cheeky squeeze of her arse. She groans her approval, rocking against him.

"'Zy–Bella–"

"Mm." She pulls away, chest rising and falling, breathing hard.

"Bella."

She smiles. "Yeah?"

He nods, his eyes glittering in the lamp light. He cups her cheek, brushes a thumb over her swollen lips. She kisses his thumb.

His hand slides behind her neck, and he pulls her mouth back to his. He presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth, where her smile begins, then trails his lips down her jaw. A tiny noise of frustration escapes her, and he chuckles, then pulls her face back to his. "Bella." He whispers the nickname against her lips, and then he kisses her softly, his lips and tongue following, and then she's all he can taste and smell and feel.

* * *

**A/N: I've absolutely failed at replying to all your wonderful reviews this week. I'm so sorry. I do read and appreciate every single one of them. Thank you all so much for your kind words.**

**My thanks, too, to BelieveItOrNot, who helps me to write better and smile more. She's my favourite colour.**

**Love you all, Shell x**


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter 8_

* * *

Edward wakes up with the taste of Isabella's kiss still on his lips. _Bella_, he thinks, feeling a strange jolt of pride. Despite the late night, he has awoken before dawn, his body reacting to the memory of her mouth on his, his hands on her skin.

He grunts in discomfort. He rolls over and stuffs his pillow under his neck. Through the open window, he watches the first cracks of light appear on the grey-blue horizon. Though it's early, he has lived here long enough to know that whilst it's mild now, the clear skies herald a warm day—summer's heat arrives early here.

He wills his body to calm down, but every effort to _not_ think of Isabella only produces the opposite result—he loses himself in the memory of kissing her under the stars, with the night breeze wrapping around them as they sat hidden in his little Tyrian block. He remembers pushing her back, admiring her in the moonlight, her eyes dark as she looked up at him, a smile dancing on her lips.

He crawls out of bed and makes for the shower. The hot water beating down on his back is soothing but does nothing to dispel the arousal that grips him deep in his gut as he remembers covering Isabella's body with his own, swallowing her little noises as he pressed himself against her.

He lets fantasy take hold, and instead of pulling away when things started to escalate, he imagines kissing down Isabella's throat, tracing his lips across collarbone. He lets himself wonder how her breasts would feel against his palms, and as he closes his hand around himself his strangled groan comes from equal parts relief and pain.

One hand against the tiled wall for support, he lets his mind conjure an image of her stripped bare, imagines it's her body he's sliding into, giving and taking pleasure.

His knees buckle as the wave of his release crests, and he dissolves with a groan.

* * *

For Isabella, vivid dreams bleed slowly into wakefulness. She lingers in that space between reality and subconscious, indulging in fantasies of kisses escalating, of skin bared and hands exploring.

Hidden beneath her doona, her eyelids are still heavy as her fingers toy with the lace edge of her underwear. Her memories of the previous evening fill her mind, but she lets her imagination warp and bend them. As her fingertips encounter damp cotton, she imagines herself stopping Edward from rolling away with a groan. Instead of lying face to the stars, gulping air like a drowning man, instead of leaving her feeling like she might float away without his weight pressing down on her, she imagines his knee pressing between her legs, parting them, his hips falling into the cradle of her pelvis, rocking, grinding.

As she imagines his hand sliding across her belly and under her shirt, her own hand finds soft curves, squeezing, circling, pinching. In her mind, her hands become his mouth, and even as he drags warm breath and scratchy whiskers across her breasts, she's feeling his tongue moving between her legs. It's too much and not enough and even as she shatters, she's already craving more.

In the bathroom, her reflection greets her with a lazy smile and flushed cheeks. As she steps into the shower, she wonders idly if she ought feel guilty for her errant fantasies, but her mind drifts again to the previous night, when the lanterns flickered out one by one, and Edward's body pressed down on her. She hears the echo of the groan that slipped from his mouth into hers, remembers the feel of the arousal he couldn't quite hide rocking against her thigh, and any residual guilt washes down the drain with her shampoo bubbles.

Behind the shower curtain, she's even bold enough to hope he was thinking of her the same way this morning.

* * *

Isabella is wiping down the already clean bar when she feels warm arms slide around her waist. She looks up over her shoulder, smiling as Edward grins down at her, his not-quite-straight and not-quite-white teeth flashing.

"Good morning."

He presses one kiss beneath her ear, and another on her cheek. "Morning, Bella."

Her smile stretches wider at the new nickname. "How did you sleep?" Even as the words leave her lips, she remembers her own early morning activities and heat pulses low in her belly.

She hears Edward swallow before he answers. "Very well. You?"

Spinning in the circle of his arms, she wraps her own around his neck, a thrill speeding up her spine at how easy this is, how right it feels. "It took me a while to fall asleep," she admits with a secret smile.

"Me, too." Edward's voice is barely a murmur. His eyes drop to her lips. "My mind was … very busy."

Isabella rises to her toes and kisses him, just little pecks at first, but soon losing herself in his lips and tongue and the warm weight of his hands on her hips, pulling her close, closer.

She kisses him with everything that's building and growing inside her, hoping like crazy that he feels it too, until she's dizzy, not only with the need to breathe but with the new feelings that are stirring in her. There's affection, yes, and desire, but something more delicate and nuanced that she's hesitant to name too soon, for fear that placing a label on it will cause it to flee, or solidify—and she's not sure which she's hoping for.

They pull back a little, lips apart but gazes locked. "I should–" Edward swallows "–do some work."

"Yes." Neither of them makes any effort to move.

"Edward? Isabella?" Esme's voice cuts through their bubble. They're both a little surprised—blinking as she steps into the Cellar Door, closing the back door behind her.

Isabella turns to face Esme, and Edward tucks his hand into her back pocket, pulling her to his side. A small thrill creeps up her spine—she likes that he moves closer instead of stepping away.

"Good morning, Esme," Isabella says. She flushes a little, and Edward wants to press his lips to the rose blooming on her cheek. She elbows him in the ribs and he startles.

"Mornin'," he says to Esme.

She chuckles. "Good morning." She waves a hand as soon as Isabella's lips part, shooting her a wink. "As long as you're not pashing whilst there's customer in here, it's all good."

Edward snickers, which earns him another elbow in the ribs. His hand still tucked into Isabella's back pocket, he retaliates by squeezing her bottom. She squeaks, and shoots him a dirty look, wrinkling her nose. He laughs and presses a kiss to her temple—and squeezes her arse again.

"I gotta go do some pH and Baumé readings for Carlisle." He hesitates, his hand moving up to the small of her back. "I'll, uh, see you later." His voice rises a little at the end—Isabella hears the question and smiles.

"Yeah. I should be finished here around six-thirty."

"Okay." He shoots a quick glance at Esme before ducking his head and pressing his lips to Isabella's. The kiss is sweet, but too brief. Isabella's fingers twitch, wanting to grab him by his blue singlet and kiss him again, harder, longer. She feels his lips stretch into a smile, and hers mirror them. They pull apart, grinning.

"See ya, Esme." Edward picks his hat up from the counter and crams it back onto his head. "Bella."

Isabella gives him a small smile—she suspects if she parts her lips too wide the butterflies cavorting in her stomach will swarm out her mouth.

Esme's smile is bright with maternal approval. "Bye, Edward."

And then he's gone, long strides carrying him back towards the lab and a bunch of tasks he'll perform with practiced efficiency, though his mind will be lingering on the sweet, American girl he can't wait to get alone again.

Esme clears her throat, and Isabella gives herself a mental shake and turns to check the bottles in the wine fridge hidden under the bar. She notes the fact she'll need to grab a few more bottles of the Reserve Semillon, as well as the Chardonnay.

"Bella?"

Isabella shrugs, but she can't fight her smile—or the heat building low in her stomach as she remembers exactly what she and Edward were doing when he came up with the nickname.

Esme snickers. "It's cute. It suits you, actually … Bella." She nods. "I like it."

"Me, too," admits Isabella. "I've always just been Isabella. Well, I'm Iz to my dad, and Izzy to Jake, but it's … I don't know." In fact, she does know, but Isabella feels strange giving voice to the thought. _It feels like a new start, like I'm a new person_. Not just with Edward—though she certainly feels freer with him than she ever did with Jake. Since landing here, though, she's felt more _herself_ than ever before. She finds it peculiar that it took landing on foreign soil for her to feel at home in her own skin.

Esme considers Isabella for a moment before she opens the dishwasher and starts sliding glasses into the overhead racks. "You know, the year before I went overseas—before I met your mum—I was having a really hard time. I'd finished my degree but had no idea what I actually wanted to do for the rest of my life. I finished school, went straight off to uni—and then I was twenty-two and supposed to know what I wanted out of life. I had a degree in psychology, but no idea if I actually wanted to work in the field."

"So you went travelling?"

"Yeah. My mum and dad were furious. Uni was free here at the time, but they paid my fees for the college I lived in—so they were absolutely ropeable. Three years of food and board and I packed up and headed to the States for a year." She smiles ruefully. "They got over it, eventually. And, for me … it was the best thing I could have done. I had to be truly independent—and once Renée joined up with me, I felt sort of responsible for her, as well. But doing that, standing on my own two feet in a new country … it felt good. I suppose I thought that if I could manage that, I could figure out everything else when I got home."

She smiles, leaning back against the bar and crossing one ankle over the other. "Which isn't to say I had it all sorted out by the time I got home. I hadn't—I still don't." She sighs, blowing red and copper strands of hair off her face. "It's just – well, it's funny how sometimes you find yourself when everything else is new."

Isabella absently straightens the few piles of pamphlets in their Perspex displays. "That's pretty much what I was just thinking. I know I've only been here, what, not even two months, but I feel so … it just feels right. Being here, I mean. I'm more content here than I can remember feeling in a long time."

She combs her fingers through her ponytail, gathering the strands of hair that snag on her fingers and letting them float towards the under-counter rubbish bin. She glances at Esme, who moves close and gives her a smile that's filled with such warmth that the words suddenly start to spill from her lips without her deciding to speak them. "I'm just scared – I'm really enjoying hanging out with Edward, but what if it's too soon? What if I'm not thinking clearly, or he wants more than I'm ready for–"

Esme's brow creases. "Edward would never–"

"I mean emotionally," Isabella clarifies. "I broke up with Jake because he wanted forever, and I wasn't even ready for next year. I just … I really like Edward, but I don't want …" She sighs. Reaching for a tasting glass, she fills it with water and gulps it down.

"I'm being silly. Over-thinking."

Esme's hand is warm on her shoulder. "Only you'll know what you're ready for, honey. If you're worried about things with Edward, just—and I'd give this advice to anyone one in any relationship—just talk to him. Let him know what you want, be honest about what you can give. And then, if you're on the same page—just enjoy it. You're both young." She shrugs. "Don't put too much pressure on yourselves."

Isabella feels a rush of affection towards her mother's friend. "Thank you, Esme."

"Any time, sweetheart." She purses her lips, then nods. "And tell Edward to introduce you to his mates. You need some girlfriends to hang out with. He's a good guy, and he's soft-hearted, but it's probably healthier if you have some other friends–"

Esme breaks off as the front doors swing open and a grey-haired couple step inside. She winks at Isabella and jerks her head towards the office.

Isabella nods her understanding, then greets her first tasters with a smile. "Good morning. Welcome to Cullen Family Estate."

* * *

Spring begins to melt into summer, jewel-sky days growing longer and warmer. The sun lingers well into the evening, and the sounds and smells of barbeques and backyard cricket matches fill the air. The vineyard is a hive of activity, close eyes being kept on both the ripening grapes and the weather.

Bella is emptying the spittoons between customers—her least favourite job—when her name is called. She looks up, the smile forming on her lips as soon as she hears Edward's voice. She tips another bucket of spat-out wine down the sink, trying not to look at its contents. "Mmm?"

"A mate of mine just invited me to his place for a barbie tonight. Would you – d'you wanna come?"

"Sure."

Edward grins. Her lack of hesitation wasn't unnoticed. "Cool. I've gotta go home and shower—I stink. But I'll pick you up about a quarter to seven, yeah?"

"Okay." Putting the dirty buckets in the dishwasher, Bella snaps off her gloves and puts some clean buckets up on the counter.

"All right, I'll see you in a bit." He starts to leave but then turns around. "They've got a pool, too, so wear your togs."

She smirks. "Togs."

"Swimmers? Bathers?" He chuckles. "Bikini?"

Rolling her eyes, she plants her hands on her hips. "I knew what you meant—I just haven't heard it used to mean a swimsuit."

"Oh." Edward shakes his head but his smile doesn't fade. "I'll see you in a bit."

* * *

"Guys, this is Bella." Edward's hand is on the small of Bella's back as he introduces the guys standing around the barbeque. "This is Pete, Alistair, Jamie, and that's Garrett." He points at each man in turn, and Bella smiles and nods at them all.

"If you forget which is which, they all answer to Boofhead," Edward tells her.

Edward is greeted with four middle fingers at that pronouncement.

"It's true," a girl says as she leans into the cooler. She pulls out three bottles of beer. Her blonde hair reaches to her waist but becomes bright purple just past her shoulders. "And so does Edward." She grabs a bottle opener and flips the lid off each of them. She hands one to Bella, and one to Edward, then takes a pull from the third. "I'm Charlotte, by the way."

"It's nice to meet you," Bella says with a smile.

"Come on," Charlotte says. "Leave the boys to their sacred barbequing duties." She looks at Edward. "I'm stealing your girlfriend."

Edward laughs. "I'll be wanting her back later."

"Yeah, yeah. C'mon." Charlotte flaps a hand at Bella. "Come meet the other girls."

She follows Charlotte across the yard to where two other girls are lounging by the pool. She walks carefully, watching where she steps—her feet are bare and she's experienced the bindies in Edward's front lawn too many times already.

"Guys. This is Edward's Bella." The two girls sit up, flipping sunglasses off their faces.

"Hi, Bella." A curvy brunette in a red one-piece reaches up to shake her hand. "I'm Maggie."

The taller, slimmer brunette gives her a curt nod and a smile that looks more like a grimace. "Angela."

"Nice to meet you," Bella repeats.

"And I'm Alice." Bella turns to see a girl of about fifteen climbing out of the pool.

Angela speaks before Bella has the chance. "Go away, Alice." She looks at Bella and rolls her eyes. "She's my sister—my parents are away on holidays so I'm on baby-sitting duty."

"Oh." Bella doesn't know what else to say. She watches awkwardly as Alice wraps herself in a beach towel, squeezes the water from her short, dark hair, and stomps back inside.

Angela snorts. "Ugh, teenaged angst."

Bella catches the frown Charlotte shoots her friend. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other and takes a sip of her beer, "Hey, it worked for Daniel Johns. He's from around here, right?"

Angela ignores her, but Charlotte grins broadly, her teeth bright against her suntanned skin, and clinks her beer bottle against Bella's. "Touché."

Charlotte and Maggie go out of their way to include Bella in their laughter-filled conversations, and she feels more at ease with each beer and each fit of giggles. Angela answers questions that are directed at her but mostly keeps quiet, nursing a bottle of some kind of brightly coloured pre-mixed alcoholic drink. Bella pushes away the prickle of irritation, reminding herself that the ease she's found in her own skin is only a new thing, and she, too, would've been only offering one-word answers at a social gathering like this back in Denver.

Edward finds her in the pool as deep purples and blues chase the reds and golds of the setting sun away. He throws his shirt over the pool fence and dives in, Angela and Alice whining as he splashes them. Resurfacing, he shakes his hair out of his face and swims to where Bella is perched on an underwater ledge at the end of the pool.

He moves to stand between her knees. "Hey."

She smiles. "Hey, yourself."

"You doing okay?"

She nods, her hand finding his beneath the water and threading their fingers together. "Yeah. The girls have been really nice."

He kisses her forehead, then ducks his head to capture her lips briefly. She tastes of beer and chlorinated-water and days in the sun. "Good."

"Keep it PG, kids," calls Alistair.

Edward looks up, ready to tell him to rack off, but Alistair is looking in the opposite direction to where Garrett has Maggie straddled across his lap, his hands on her arse and his tongue down her throat.

"There are children present," Angela adds, her tone waspish.

"Psssh, not like I haven't done that and more," Alice retorts from the plastic chair she's curled up on. She shrugs off Angela's scowl. "What? Like you and Ben weren't–" She breaks off at the look on her sister's face.

"Can we eat now?" Charlotte pulls herself out of the pool. "I'm freaking starving."

Murmurs of agreement greet her suggestion, and one by one, the others pull themselves out of the water and head inside to the kitchen. When only Edward and Bella are left in the pool, he pulls her forward. Bella wraps her legs around his waist, letting the water support her weight. She slides her hands up his arms and around his neck.

"Hey."

Edward laughs, the creases around his eyes deepening. He pulls Bella close, kissing her softly as she wraps her legs around his waist. "We should get out."

"Mmm-hmm." Bella kisses him again. "We really should."

It takes another fifteen minutes, and Alistair coming back outside to tease them, before they untangle themselves and climb out of the pool.

* * *

On the first day of December, Bella has just settled into bed after another barbeque—this time at Charlotte's—when her phone chimes. It's a text from her father, announcing that Sue is in labour. Ten minutes later, she receives the same message from Jacob, although he tacks an "if you even care," onto the end. She rolls her eyes in the dark. She replies to her father with wishes of good luck, and instructions to call, no matter the hour, once the baby has been delivered. She ignores Jacob.

It takes her a long time to fall asleep. She's on edge, waiting for the news that she's a big sister, and pissed off at Jacob's needling. She composes half a dozen different responses before she decides it isn't worth it. She lets her mind linger instead on memories of sitting on Edward's lap earlier this evening, stealing kisses and sips of his beer, his fingers tangled in the ends of her hair, until she finally drifts off.

She's eating breakfast when her father finally calls, tiredness and elation competing in his familiar voice as he announces the birth of her half-brother, Seth Charles Swan. He doesn't stay on the phone long—just long enough to assure Bella that both Sue and baby are doing well, and to say something that's obviously been weighing heavy on his mind, "You'll always be my best girl, Iz."

Bella smiles, blinking away the tears that well at the genuine warmth in her father's voice. "I love you, Dad."

"I love you, too. We'll Skype with you when Sue and Seth are home from the hospital, okay?"

"Okay."

She has just finished her bowl of Coco-Pops when her phone chimes again. It's from Sue—a picture of her dad with baby Seth in his arms. Even the moustache can't hide her father's smile today.

* * *

By mid-December, the days heat consistently into the thirties, and Bella finally accepts the inevitable and decorates the Cellar Door with Christmas decorations. School holidays are about to start, which will mean an influx of tourists to the region.

It's another hot, clear Saturday and Edward is in the lab, running yet another sulphur dioxide aspiration, when heavy footsteps announce Jasper's arrival. Edward sighs internally when he sees the lines of Jasper's scowl are drawn deeper than usual.

"Dad needs you up at the Cellar Door," he says, his eyes on his feet. He folds his arms over his chest as he leans against the doorjamb.

"Okay." Edward sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Tell him I'll be up in halfa, I just need to finish this and write up some stuff."

"Um," Jasper chews his lips for a second. "I think it's kind of important." He meets Edward's eyes, and no trace of his usual hostility lingers there. Edward notices his brow is beaded with sweat and he's breathing hard. "He just got a call from Alec. He just kicked out a pretty rowdy buck's party out and they're headed this way now."

"Ah, shit." Edward shuts off the flame and runs his eyes over the equipment, making sure he's not going to come back to a lab full of shattered glassware. "Did Alec say how many?" He shrugs his lab coat off and throws it over a hook on the wall.

"Dad didn't say," Jasper says. "Just that he needed you up there quick smart. He was out in the Savvy block, so he should be just behind us."

Edward closes his eyes, as though he can push away the image of Bella surrounded by a busload of aggressively drunk guys. He shakes his head. "'Kay. Let's go."

When Edward and Jasper pull open the back door of the tasting room, the scene that greets them makes Edward cringe. About a dozen obviously intoxicated guys are either lounging in the dark brown leather chairs, or leaning on their elbows at the bar. The air is thick with the smell of boozy breath and body odour, and the usual elegance of the room has vanished into the swell of obnoxious jeers and catcalls.

The plug is pulled on the panic rising in Edward's chest when he hears Jasper laughing.

He follows the younger man's gaze and swallows down the laugh that building in his throat. He's not sure whether it's relief or amusement that has his lips twitching, but he doesn't really care.

Bella is near the front doors of the Cellar Door, apparently scolding the group's designated driver. "What the hell are you thinking, bringing them here?" She might be about thirty centimetres shorter than the driver, but he's close to cowering as she stabs a finger in the air.

Edward takes a step forward, but a hand on his shoulder keeps him in place. He looks back at Carlisle, who is watching Bella and not even trying to contain his amusement.

"They're all obviously completely wasted," she continues. "I did my RSA. I know I could get in trouble for giving them more booze. And so could my boss."

Edward is pretty sure the bus driver is giving her the, "Hey, I just drive where I'm told," excuse, but she's apparently not buying it.

"I don't care. You're the only sober one. You're the only one whose judgment isn't completely screwed up right now. What if one or more of them got aggressive, huh? What if they tried something with me? You're a damn fool."

She ignores the guy nearest her, who offers to do more than _try_ something with her. He gets a high five from a friend and a dirty look from Edward.

"All right, boys," she raises her voice and looks at the group of sweaty, staggering young guys draped around the room. "Probably time to go find some lunch, yeah?"

Edward smiles as the guys all look at each other, nodding and slurring their agreement. Bella could simply tell them all to get the fuck out, but rather than challenge their alcohol-fuelled bravado, she redirects their attention.

"I'm hungry," whines one of the men. He's probably twice Edward's width, but manages to sound remarkably like an over-tired toddler.

"Me, too."

"Fuckin' oath."

Bella nods, holding the tinted glass doors open for them as they dutifully file out like a preschool class. "Go on. Go find some–" she looks across the room and winks at Edward "–pie or something."

His chuckle dies on his lips as the last guy moving out the door stops and drops his mouth to Bella's ear.

Edward can't hear what he's saying, but he sees the sudden stiffness in Bella. Her knuckles are white around the door handle, and she leans away, clearly uncomfortable with his intrusion into her personal space. The way she's arching back, trying to distance herself from the guy, gives him the opportunity to look down her shirt and he takes it unashamedly.

Edward, Carlisle and Jasper move towards the pair in the same moment, as Bella shakes her head, her lips pressed tight.

"… frigid Yankee bitch."

Edward's fingers close around the guy's bicep and he spins him away from Bella, pushing him up against the sandstone wall.

"What? What'd I do?" the guy whines. Edward grimaces at the smell of stale beer and Bundy mixed with red wine. These guys have evidently been boozing since before breakfast.

"Benji." The designated driver sticks his head back inside. "What the – aww, shit man. Couldn't you keep your bloody mouth shut, hey?" He moves back into the room with a sigh.

"Sorry," he says to Bella. "He's harmless, really. All talk. But he gets on the turps are thinks he's Casa-fuckin'-nova. I hope he didn't say anything too bad?"

Bella shrugs. "Whatever."

"C'mon, mate." He grabs Benji by the arm. "Let's get outta here."

Edward removes the arm that's pinning Benji against the wall, but skewers him with a glare. With another glance at Bella's chest, Benji rolls his eyes and follows the driver outside, muttering under his breath.

Carlisle closes the doors behind them and flicks the locks closed. "Everyone okay? You all right, Bella?"

Bella nods, running shaky fingers through her hair. "Fine."

"Boys?"

Jasper nods. "Yeah. I'm gunna go eat some lunch." He claps Edward's shoulder and heads back out the back door, leaving Edward looking after him with his mouth open is surprise.

Bella giggles—it's higher than normal, nervous and shaky. "Close your mouth, babe."

He does, reaching for Bella and pulling her into the circle of his arms. He briefly contemplates asking what the guy said to her, but decides that he probably doesn't want to know—at least until _after_ the minibus has pulled out of the car park, anyway.

Instead, he presses a kiss to her temple. The now familiar smell of her green tea and jasmine moisturizer soothes the frayed edges of his nerves. _She's fine_, he tells himself, _she handled them easily_.

Bella tucks her head under his chin, kissing his chest just above the line of his blue singlet. _You're fine_, she tells herself. _They're gone._

Carlisle sighs, watching Edward and Bella curl into each other. "Take the rest of the arvo off, Bella."

Edward looks up, and Carlisle nods. "You, too. Esme and I can manage here. Take her out to the coast; hit the beach or something."

His lips find Bella's forehead again. "How about we go out to Redhead?"

Bella touches his cheek, her smile fading. She knows this is about more than showing her sun and sand and waves. This is Edward showing her his history, the places and spaces that have shaped and defined him. Her palm against his jaw, she nods. "Yeah. Let's go."

* * *

**Australianisms:**

**pashing = making out/ kissing with a great deal of enthusiasm**

**getting on the turps = drinking a lot of alcohol**

* * *

**A/N: Hi! Thank you to you all for reading and reviewing and being lovely and supportive. I appreciate you all so much. **

**Big sqooshy-squeezy hugs to BelieveItOrNot who holds my hand and catches my mistakes and helps me to be a better writer. Thank you, loveliest.**

**Love, Shell x**

* * *

P.S. I wrote a one-shot for the HEA contest. It's now on my profile, if you want to read.

**My One and Only: **_When you meet that guy—the only one you'll ever want—at age ten, no one expects it to last. We proved them all wrong. _


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter 9._

* * *

Christmas Eve dawns hot and bright, and the sun is high in the sapphire sky long before Bella wakes. The ceiling fan does little to ease the warmth the sun throws through the open windows into her room. She wriggles, her naked body already beading with perspiration.

She groans as she rolls over; the heat and the pounding in her head are not a good combination. A rasping chuckle breezes across her shoulder blades and she gasps as she dives out of bed.

Edward looks up at her, his eyes wide. A sly grin slides across his lips. "Nice," he murmurs, lifting his eyebrows.

"Shit." Bella stumbles as she yanks the sheet from the bed, wrapping it around her. "What–" She squeezes her eyes closed for a few moments as she waits for the dizziness brought on by her too-fast movement to pass.

When she opens them, she frowns, searching for a memory from the previous night that would explain why she is naked but for her knickers, and Edward is in her bed. He's shirtless but, to her relief, he's still wearing the shorts he'd worn the previous evening.

She sits on the edge of the bed, avoiding his eyes. "I remember coming back here … and I remember, uh, making out on the couch, and I remember opening another bottle of Chablis." The dress she was wearing last night is crumpled on the floor. She pushes it around with her toes.

Edward groans as he stretches. "There's not much you're missing then. We drank that. You fell asleep. I carried you in here. You woke up and told me the couch sucked for sleeping on and patted the mattress." He chews his lip and sighs. "I thought – I mean, you definitely had clothes on, and I – I didn't, I wouldn't …"

Bella laughs, her eyes still downcast. "I know." It's not that she's at all against the idea of sleeping with Edward—she does, however, want to remember it, if or when it happens. "I strip in my sleep when I'm hot. It's gotten me into some awkward situations in the past."

"What do you mean?" Edward's voice is tight.

She looks up, her cheeks flushing more than even the stifling heat inside her room warrants. She sees the anger flare in Edward's eyes and shakes her head at the assumptions she suspects he's making. "No. Nothing bad. More embarrassing. Sleepovers with my girlfriends … It's just a little awkward waking up naked. Trying to get redressed under the covers and whatever." She glances at the ancient air-conditioning unit set into the wall. "Guess I forgot to put that on."

Edward laughs, shaking his head. "I think you asked me to, sorry. I didn't understand what you were on about."

"Do you not call it an air-conditioner?"

He snickers. "You told me to turn the wall on." He scrubs the whiskers that shade his chin. "I put the light on and you got a little cranky."

Bella giggles, adjusting the sheet she's still clutching to her chest. "Well, I did say wall, not ceiling."

Edward rolls onto his side, propping his head on his hand. "I'll remember that next time." His gaze dips to the sheet. "Or maybe I won't."

His eyes on Bella's, Edward reaches for the sheet. His fingers twist the white fabric, bunching it up, pulling it towards him. Isabella sees the question in his eyes, and she knows what it will mean if she lets the sheet fall away. She asks herself, _Am I ready?_

She thinks of their trip to Redhead Beach, of sitting on the beach in front of the house that Edward's aunt used to own whilst he told her stories about growing up in the country and on the beach, and spending time in the city, too, and never knowing exactly where he belonged. To his cousins in Sydney, he was a country boy, to the ones who lived out in north-western New South Wales, he was a city kid.

"Eventually, I kinda figured it just didn't matter," he told her, picking up a handful of sand. He watched the wind catch the grains as they spilled slow and steady from his fist. "Where my feet are, I mean. Home can be anywhere, as long as there's family, friends. Home is people, not a place."

Their fingers linked, they'd stood at the water's edge until he'd pulled her close and kissed her. On tiptoe, the whitewash tangling around her ankles, his hands on her waist, her lips pressed to his, she'd thought she might have understood what he was talking about.

She scrapes her teeth over her lip. _I've been ready for weeks_.

She stands up and lets the sheet fall. She barely hears Edward's intake of breath over the hum of the ceiling fan, but she sees his throat work as he swallows, can almost feel his gaze dragging across her nakedness, drawing goose bumps that are at odds with the rising temperature in her bedroom.

"Bella." He shakes his head. He's seen her in her bikini a lot since the weather started to warm, and he may have had his hands under her shirt on a number occasions, but seeing her now, naked but for her black cotton briefs, he's overwhelmed.

With his wide eyes roving over her, his chin dropped, Bella can't find it in her to care about the flaws and imperfections she knows she wears. She doesn't care about the bikini tan that has left her breasts and bottom fairer than rest of her body. She's not worrying about that little outward curve of her lower belly, or the fact that her thighs touch. Edward's gaze is so reverent, so awed, that she feels unusually confident. She stands before him, almost completely bare, and she relishes it.

She climbs onto the bed and Edward sits up, his fingers twitching. He reaches for her face. Hand against her cheek, he looks into shiny brown eyes. "You sure?"

She doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

She leans forward then, capturing his lips with her own. Their kiss builds, tongues meeting, hands roaming, until Edward is on top of her, his weight supported on one elbow, the fingers of his other hand curling around her hip.

Breathing hard, he relinquishes her lips as she tugs at the waistband of his shorts.

"These … off."

He shakes his head. "Not yet." He chuckles at her pout, ducking his head to pull her bottom lip between his own. "Things will … move too fast," he tells her. "I want to–" he trails kisses down her throat "– explore, first."

Her whine is cut off as she feels his hair breeze against her chin and his lips close over a nipple. Her curse escapes on a breath, "Fuck."

"Soon," he promises. She feels his smile against the swell of her breast.

He maps the terrain of her body with his mouth, climbing her breasts, his tongue circling her nipples, then dipping to her belly and traversing from hip bone to hip bone.

He looks up at Bella as he hooks his fingers into her the elastic of her knickers. She lifts her head and nods. "Yes."

He tugs at the stretchy cotton; she lifts her hips and he pushes her underwear to her knees. Whilst she kicks them the rest of the way off, Edward lifts himself back over her, kissing her cheek, then her nose—which makes her giggle—and then her mouth.

He holds her captive with his kiss, swallowing her gasp as his fingers move between her legs. He ignores the needy ache building in his belly, tightening his muscles, and focuses instead on Bella. His fingertips circle and rub, experimenting with pressure and pace, learning her noises, the way her body responds to his touch. Her hips buck and she moans into their kiss.

He feels her body tense and he pulls his lips from hers in time to watch her shatter. Her head pressing into the pillow, back arching, little "ah, ah, ah" noises spill from her as she stiffens and then dissolves.

He pulls his hand away, wiping it on the sheet before he brushes away the strands of hair that cling to her sweat-damp face.

Edward can't yet name the tightening in his chest as her heavy eyes open, but as she looks up, smiling sleepy-blissful, he feels winded. As though he'd fallen from a great height, the breath is knocked out of him.

He's winded in a completely different way as Bella's fingers find the button of his shorts. She lowers the zip, and her hand slips into his boxers, curling around where he is most desperate to be touched. He grunts, his hips rocking reflexively as she pumps him once, twice—and then scrunches up her nose, pulling her hand from his shorts. He groans, half-protest, half-concern.

"Sorry," she giggles. "The angle – it was hurting my wrist. Take them off." She slaps his hip, and he complies, lifting his hips and kicking his legs until his shorts and boxers land in a heap on the floor.

Bella smirks, pushing on his shoulder, until he rolls onto his back. Climbing over him, she straddles his waist and leans forward, stretching to reach the drawer in her nightstand. He takes advantage of the position, his thumbs brushing across her nipples. She gasps and he chuckles.

"Your breasts are heaps pretty," he tells her, his eyes not leaving them.

"Ah … thank you?" Bella snickers. "They're a part of the standard package."

"There's nothing standard about you," he says.

"You're smooth." She throws the little packet onto the pillow, then sits back up, her hands resting on his chest.

Edward smirks up at her, his eyes flicking towards the drawer she was rummaging in. "Were you expecting me?" He wiggles his eyebrows.

Although she flushes, she shrugs. "Wishful thinking, perhaps."

Edward's jaw flexes as his mind gifts him with the image of Bella _thinking_ about this. "You've thought about it?"

She leans down, her hair falling across his face and chest, her lips beside his ear. "Quite a lot, actually."

She giggles as he groans—and then finds herself on her back with Edward hovering over her. His kiss is hard, needy, and she quickly loses herself in it. She rakes her fingernails through his hair, and a shudder runs up his spine. He grinds between her legs, seeking to ease the pressure building within. It makes her whimper.

Her hands move to his shoulders, and she pushes at him, though she doesn't stop kissing him. Edward pulls away, chuckling. He looks down at her, and that tightness in his chest intensifies a little.

Bella fumbles around, feeling for the condom. Her fingers close over the little packet, and she tilts her head against the pillow. "Like this?"

Edward nods, his "yes" stuck in his throat. Bella feels him twitch against her thigh.

She makes quick work of tearing open the packet and rolling the latex down his length.

And then he's there, the muscles in his arms flexing as he holds himself steady. "Yes?"

"Yes." She lifts a hand to his cheek as he pushes inside her, slowly, slowly, his eyes intense as he watches her face for any sign of discomfort. He sees only pleasure, hears only her breathy request for "more."

They move together, teaching each other a new rhythm, a new dance. Bella's fingernails dig into his forearms as he picks up their pace, fanning the flames that lick at her from the inside. Sweat beads on heated skin. The sound of their bodies colliding again and again and again fills the air.

Bella fights the urge to close her eyes as she feels herself move closer to coming apart again. She wants to watch him, watch the tendons in his neck pull taut, his face almost pained as his lips part and his breathing grows heavy.

"Bella. I–I need – I can't–"

She's knows she's close but she can tell he's closer, too close. "It's okay," she tells him. "Let go."

His thrusts become erratic, and then he stills, every muscle tightening as his climax crashes over him.

When coherence finds him, he frowns. "I'm s–"

Bella claps her hand across his mouth. "Don't you dare."

She feels his smile against her palm. "Mmmhaa."

She takes that as his agreement, and replaces her hand with her lips, kissing him softly until he pulls back and rolls off her.

"Bathroom," he says, and she feels the mattress shake as he climbs off the bed, hears the beeps as he fiddles with the air-conditioner, before he pads out of the room.

She's dozing when he crawls back into bed, bringing the sheet with him, pulling it over them. He kisses her cheek, "How's the head?"

She sleepy-chuckles. "Mmmm."

His arm around her waist, her back against his chest, they drift in and out of sleep, the rattling of the air-conditioner strangely soothing, until the sun reaches its zenith and begins its slow slide back down.

It's after 2pm when Bella pulls the sheets over their heads and kisses Edward's nose. "Merry Christmas."

* * *

Esme swings open the screen door, her smile wide as she waves Bella inside. "Merry Christmas!"

Bella smiles at the silver tinsel Esme has tied around her ponytail, and the completely incongruous scarf-wrapped snowmen dangling from her earlobes. She flicks one. "Merry Christmas."

Bella was utterly baffled the first time she heard "Frosty the Snowman" playing in the grocery store. She looked at Edward and shook her head. "But it's like, ninety-five degrees outside!"

He scratched his neck and shrugged. "I dunno … I've always found it strange myself. I mean, look at fu– freaking Santa Claus. That fat bastard'd die of heat stroke or something here." His smile turned sly, "And it's _thirty_-five degrees. Your Fahrenheit nonsense makes no sense."

The conversation then deteriorated into an argument over the relative merits of the metric versus imperial systems, punctuated with the kisses Edward couldn't help stealing whenever Bella got feisty with him. She pushed him away when one kiss got too heated for their rather public setting.

"I'm just sayin' – multiples of ten, baby. So much easier to work with."

Bella laughed and slapped his chest, then kissed him again.

Esme drags her attention back to the Edward-less present. "Did Edward go out to Nelson Bay?"

"Um, they went to Redhead, actually," Bella tells her. "Beth rented a house for the week, and they all went up after dinner last night."

Esme smiles, but her eyes are sad. "That's a lovely way of remembering Kate." She looks at the ground for a moment. "Anyway. Can I get you a drink, hon?"

Bella follows Esme into the kitchen, which looks like it's been overrun by a fishmonger. There are ice-filled platters of oysters—prepared a number of ways by the looks of it—prawns, lobster, crab, and a number of other crustacean-type creatures that Bella doesn't recognise; a few bowls of salad and a few dessert-looking things.

"This is pavlova, right?" She points at the cream-and-fruit laden meringue, accepting the glass of sparkling wine Esme hands her with a smile.

"Yep." Esme laughs. "Actually, perhaps you're lucky Edward isn't here—you'll actually get a chance to eat some of it."

Bella snorts. "He's been talking about it for weeks."

"That absolutely doesn't surprise me."

"What's not surprising?" Carlisle wanders into the kitchen, shirtless, beer in hand. "Oh hey, Bella. Merry Christmas." He kisses her cheek, sets his beer on the counter and grabs a prawn from the icy platter in front of him.

"Edward's been telling Bella about my pavlova."

Carlisle snickers. "That punk – he stole all my leftovers last year, Bella. Can you believe that?"

Jasper's groan announces his arrival. "Is Dad still banging on about Edward stealing his pavlova last year?" He grabs an oyster, which is covered with what looks like crushed red ice and cucumber, and tosses it back.

Esme frowns, looking between her son and husband. "I guess lunch has started then." She turns to Bella and waves at one of the stools tucked under the island bench. "Have a seat, honey. It's just the four of us this year, so we're keeping it low-key."

Carlisle grins at Bella, pointing at the various platters, "The oysters are natural, those are Kilpatrick, and these ones have a gazpacho granita on them. Oh, and these are Balmain Bugs," he points at the orange-shelled crustaceans.

Esme hands Bella a plate, pushes one towards Jasper with a shake of her head, and then starts loading her own with some sort of salad decorated with pomegranate seeds.

They spend most of the afternoon eating, moving between the seafood and desserts and cheeses and then back again as they fancy. At four o'clock, Bella looks at the cracker she's just smeared with quince paste and locally-made blue-veined cheese and tells herself that it's the last thing she's going to eat for well, perhaps the next year.

* * *

Jasper has a beer in his hand when he steps out onto the balcony.

"Should you be drinking that?" Bella is only half-teasing. She's become used to the lower legal drinking age in Australia, but Jasper has only just turned seventeen.

He shrugs. "I've been tasting wine since I was a kid. I mean, Mum and Dad would make me spit it out when I was younger." He takes another pull of his beer. "They're okay with me having the occasional drink at home but."

"Only at home?" She tips her head as she watches him.

He kicks a gumnut and pulls his free hand through his hair. "Yeah. Only at home. And only sometimes. Last time I was hungover after a party Dad gave me a pretty hard time."

"Yeah?"

Jasper snorts. "Yeah, read me the riot act and grounded me for like a month. And he still made me help Edward graft that bloody Tyrian plot."

Bella takes a sip of her wine. It's a Cullen Estate Semillon, and she feels a peculiar thrill of pride when she realises Edward produced this wine.

She frowns, squinting against the bright summer sun—it occurs to her she's never heard Jasper use Edward's first name—he's usually "Masen" or "Mase."

"Grafting is hard work?"

"Time consuming and bloody fiddly." He shakes his head, the sun glinting off his shaggy blond curls. "Not much fun when your head is pounding."

Bella snickers. "That'll teach ya."

"What?" He raises his eyebrows. "You never got wasted underage?"

Bella scrunches her nose. "Once or twice. My Dad's a cop, so …"

"Oh."

"Yeah. Exactly." She swirls a finger through the condensation frosting her glass. "So, um … you seem to be … I mean, you and Edward …" She breaks off. She wants to ask why he seems to have warmed up to Edward all of a sudden, but it feels awkward.

Jasper sets his beer on the balcony rail and leans his forearms on the wooden beam. He speaks with his face turned away from Bella. "Did you ever make an assumption about someone and realise it was kinda dumb? Like, maybe you were letting other stuff mess up your judgment, seeing what you wanted to see?"

_Ah_. Bella smiles. "Yeah. Who hasn't, really?"

"That buck's party." He scratches the back of his neck. "I d'know. It was pretty obvious he wasn't …" He blows out a breath. "Well, I thought he might've just been, I guess – You were new and pretty and stuff. But then, he was like, really worried about you, and I–I figured I'd misread him." He lowers his voice. "And possibly misunderstood some other stuff."

Bella understands what Jasper's saying—that perhaps he had misunderstood Edward's relationship with Tanya. She gathers Jasper assumed the convenience of the relationship didn't extend both ways and he thought Edward was using Tanya. She wants to be annoyed, but reminds herself that he's only a kid. She squeezes the younger guy's arm, and he looks at her hand, bemused. She pulls it away.

"Anyway. Even _I_ could see how much he cares about you. And so–" he sighs "–I thought I should just get over it. Maybe he isn't the guy I thought he was." He nods once and Bella can tell the subject is closed.

* * *

At four o'clock, Edward is standing on Redhead Beach, wishing he was approximately 65 kilometres further west. He smiles as he imagines Bella dozing on Carlisle and Esme's couch, her belly full of Esme's pavlova, occasionally throwing pieces of balled up wrapping paper at Jasper. It's what he'd be doing, anyway.

One hand on his hip, the other shielding his eyes from the sun's glare, he watches some of his younger cousins race around on the shore. A little way up the sand, Tyler and Paul are sprawled on their towels, ears plugged with their headphones, ignoring the younger children as they race from the soft dry sand to the water's edge and back again. Edward's chest squeezes a little for the two teenaged boys. Their lives have been tossed around like little boats on a raging ocean since their mother died—on top of their grief, they've had to deal with their father fighting their mother's partner for custody of them. He wishes someone would just think to ask the boys what _they'd_ prefer.

Shaking the troubling thoughts from his mind, Edward turns his attention to his youngest cousin—by twelve minutes—in time to see her trip over her own feet and land face first in the sand. "Riley, be careful," he calls. The little girl shakes her head as she jumps to her feet and takes off again, her arms outstretched, shrieking her best seagull imitation.

He can't help but smile as she grabs Vicky's hand, and the two of them run towards the waves, then squeal as the water rises quickly to their knees. They play chasings with the waves for a while, trying to outrun the surge of whitewash.

Edward runs a hand through his hair, still a little damp from the swim he took whilst his cousins were occupied playing with the toys they'd unwrapped that morning.

His phone chimes, but he doesn't pull it out to see if the text is from the girl who has been on his mind almost all day. He wants to, fingertips twitching towards his pocket, but he fights the urge. Riley and Victoria have already scared the hell out of him twice with their antics, so he refuses to tear his eyes away from them whilst they're anywhere near the water's edge.

He's relieved, a few hours later, when his lifeguard duties are discharged and he can sneak out onto the balcony, beer in hand, phone pressed to his ear. It's quiet outside, where day is fading into night, though the occasional shriek or complaint or the sound of the little ones splashing around in the bathtub is carried out the open windows on the breeze.

Bella answers her phone with a giggle. "_Hey_, babe."

Edward smiles. "Are you drunk, gorgeous?"

"Yes," she says. "I'm a little drunk and little gorgeous."

"You're more than a little gorgeous." He chuckles. "I wish I was there."

"I wish you were here, too." She sighs, and then her voice takes on a sly edge. "I want to take advantage of you."

"Bel-_la_." Edward groans, his mind bombarding him with images of Bella's naked body. He rests his free arm on the balcony rail.

She giggles. "Oopsies."

Edward can hear the wind brushing across the microphone of her phone. "Are you outside?"

"Yes!" She's excited by his correct guess. "I won't hurt your babies though, I promise."

"My bab– oh, are you in the Tyrian block?"

"Uh-huh."

Edward chuckles, shifting his feet. He leans his hip against the rail so that he's facing into the evening breeze. The air is warm still, and heavy with the scent of the ocean and the next-door neighbour's barbeque. "Be careful. Don't get lost in there."

"Pssshh. All the straight lines," she says. "Can't get los– Hey, can I eat one?"

"You can try, but I'm war–" Edward hears the rustle of leaves and shakes his head. He waits for her squeal.

"Oh my gosh!" He can hear Bella spitting and blowing raspberries. "That's–" she spits again "–fucking disgusting. Ack. Where'd you go, beery-beer?"

Edward snorts as he listens to Bella try to locate the beer she was obviously drinking when she wandered into his block, though he's a little wistful as he weighs up his desire to grab his keys and head home right now against the time he knows his mother has been longing to spend with him.

"So, um, I don't think your wine is going to taste very good."

"Mmm." Edward's brain automatically provides him with all the information he needs to reply to her assertion—the grapes are months off being ripe, they're highly tannic and with a very low pH, at this stage they're full of tartaric acid. He'll be pruning off the bunches in the next few weeks so the vine can focus its energy into lateral growth. He laughs. "Gorgeous girl, they're not ripe. And even if they were, wine grapes aren't good eating. They're not as sweet as table grapes."

She snickers. "Table grapes. That's funny … Oh! 'Cause you eat them at the table. But sometimes I drink wine at the table …"

Edward smiles into the evening air as she continues to philosophise, then smirks as he realises something. "Well, you know, they do call wine that's neither sparkling nor fortified_ table_ wine—at least the New World does. Means something different in Europe."

Bella is silent for a few beats. "Right. Table wine, that is _not_ made from table grapes. Makes perfect sense." She sighs. "Your vines have grown a lot since we picnicked down here."

"Yeah, they're doing heaps well."

Their conversation meanders around like Bella's steps through the vineyard rows, moving forwards and then back again as the mood takes her. She wants to know all about Edward's day, and then gleefully tells him about the two enormous slices of pavlova she ate, and then brags about the leftovers Esme sent her home with.

"Are you still out in the vines?"

"No, I'm on the porch."

Edward wishes he were sitting beside her.

"I wish you were here," she tells him, then yawns widely. "Sorry. I'm so sleepy now."

"Okay. Sweet dreams, gorgeous. I'll see you in a few days."

"Mmmkay. Night night."

Bella pushes herself to her feet with a groan, catching another yawn on the back of her hand. For a moment, she stands as still as her tired legs will hold her, feeling the warm air swirl around her, breathing in the summertime smells of sweet earth and eucalyptus that have become so familiar. Her sigh is heavy with contentment as she spins on her heel and heads inside.

* * *

**A/N: You're all lovely. Thank you for reading and reviewing and being so kind. I love hearing from you!**

**Old Phoebe, you're heaps pretty, and all kinds of wonderful. Thank you.**

**Shell x **


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter 10._

* * *

On Boxing Day, Bella discovers the first thing she really doesn't like about life in Australia. There have been some things she's discovered she's not too fond of, small irritations—the incessant screech of cicadas, the flies and mosquitoes, the midnight thump of possums racing across her roof. The price of clothing down here sucks, too, and she's glad she doesn't drive so she doesn't have to buy petrol.

But by eleven o'clock on the day after Christmas, Bella has decided that she absolutely cannot abide _Cricket_. More specifically, she's convinced that Test Cricket is the most boring game known to mankind.

She sits on the couch between Esme and Jasper, with Carlisle lying on the floor, cushion beneath his head, watching thirteen men run around on perfectly manicured grass. As their white uniforms become progressively grubbier, she grows increasingly bored—and worried for Esme's sanity.

"That was clearly going down leg side!" Esme shouts, berating the referee or umpire or whatever they call the poor soul who has to adjudicate this inane sport. Bella looks between Esme and the television, nonplussed.

By half past twelve, Bella is trying to find an excuse to leave the big house. She's considering asking to borrow Esme's car, back-to-front wrong-side-of-the-road be damned, when Esme stands up and stretches.

"Are you hungry, honey?"

"Is it finished?"

Esme laughs. "No. It's lunchtime. It's a five day match, dear."

"Five days?" Bella's voice is faint.

"Yep." Esme grins as she disappears into the kitchen.

Bella glances at the television set. The two men on screen may as well be speaking Urdu, for all she understands of it. They replay the same shot over and over from different angles, little arrows pointing out … something. She shakes her head and stands.

Fishing her phone out of her pocket, she steps out onto the deck. "You need to come and get me. Or give me directions and I'll drive out there."

* * *

"Hey, you."

"Hey! How are you?"

Edward grins into the mouthpiece of his phone. "I'm great. Whatchya doin'?"

"I'm swimming. Or I was until you rang and I had to get out of the pool."

"Where are you swimming?"

"At Charlotte's."

Edward grins at the chorus of "Hi, Edward," and catcalling in the background. "Sounds like everybody's there."

"Everyone except you." Bella can't quite hide the pout in her voice. It widens Edward's smile, to think she's missing him.

"I'll be home in a few days," he murmurs. "Did one of the girls pick you up?"

"Nope." Bella grins. "I drove."

Edward pauses, squinting up at the blue sky hanging over Redhead Beach. "You _drove_? In a back-to-front car on the wrong side of the road?"

Bella nods, puffing her chest up a little—until she remembers he can't see her. "Yep."

"Whoa."

Bella giggles. "It was an emergency. I was dying of boredom."

"Uh–"

"Cricket, Edward. They were watching cricket. At one point this morning, the commentators were talking about the seagulls. The fucking _seagulls_, Edward. And I was being a good guest and watching and not complaining, even though I thought I was going to fall into a coma and you'd have to come back to kiss me awake or something."

Edward chuckles.

"And then, I thought it was _finally_ over, but it was only lunch-time. And Esme told me there was another _four and a half days_ of it to go."

"Ah, yeah. It's the Boxing Day Test."

"Edward?"

"Mmm."

"Do you … I mean, I'm not sure if I can be your girlfriend if it would mean five days of watching guys in white ambling around on the grass."

Edward snorts. "Fuck, no, gorgeous. Firstly, I only watch Twenty20 – uh, it's a really short version of the game, only takes about three hours all told. And second–" he sighs "–if you didn't enjoy something, then I wouldn't expect you to watch, anyway."

Bella snickers. Even as her tummy flutters a little, she can't resist teasing him. "Does that mean you expect me to let you off the hook when I want to watch figure-skating?"

"Bel, if you can find figure-skating on telly, I will absolutely watch it with you."

She snorts—then coughs as beer tries to escape out her nose. "Any excuse to watch girls in spandex, huh?"

"Well, duh." Edward toes the wet sand; kicking small clumps up into the air and watching them splatter on impact. "Nah. There's only one girl I want to see wearing that kind of stuff–"

"I don't do sparkles."

_Bloody hell, I miss her, _Edward thinks, as Bella's giggles ring down the phone line. The summer sun has nothing on the way her laughter warms him from the inside out. "No problem," he says. "Naked beats sparkly any day."

Bella is silent as she walks across Charlotte's backyard, dodging the patch of bindies she found the hard way.

"Bella?" _Shit_.

"Mmm?"

"Shit. Did I – I was just messing – I mean, I'm sor–"

She cuts him off, her voice low and soft. "I want you."

Edward's stumbling apologies become a groan. "You're killing me."

"When will you be home again?" She leans against the back fence, using her free hand to twist more water from her hair. The smell of chlorine and sunscreen mingling with eucalypt and barbequing sausages is strangely appealing.

Edward rubs his palm over his face as he sits down on the scorching sand. He leans back on his free hand, crossing his ankles in front of him. "The thirtieth."

"That long?" Bella smirks. "I guess I'll just have to–"

"Isabella! You want a beer?"

She holds the phone away from her mouth. "Yeah, the Endeavour Amber. Thanks, Pete … Sorry, Edward."

"S'okay."

"Oh. One sec."

Edward listens to Bella thank Pete for the beer, her giggles dancing with his chuckle. He sits forward, drawing patterns in the sand. He licks his lips, tasting the bitter words he refuses to let spill. He doesn't like feeling jealous of his best mates.

"Sorry, I'm back now."

"Right."

Bella forces the sigh building in her chest out her nose. She can hear the flat tone in Edward's short answer, and she's both frustrated and wistful. _Doesn't he realise I'd rather be where he is? _

She shifts the subject abruptly. "Tanya's here, too."

Edward nods, swirling a fingertip through the warm sand. "I figured she'd be home for Christmas."

"She's gorgeous."

"Yep." He sighs. "Bella–"

"She's a sweetheart, too."

"Bel–"

"I miss you, Edward. Is that dumb?"

Jealousy and frustration drain from Edward like an overturned bottle of wine. "I hope not, mate. 'Cause I'm about five seconds off going inside, grabbing my keys and driving back there."

Bella's stomach flip-flops at his admission, her smile stretching wide. "Your mom will hate me if I encourage that, won't she?"

Edward chuckles. "Nah, Mum loves you. She's been telling the whole family how adorable you are."

Bella's cheeks flush hot. "Um, okay. She's only met me once, though."

"Maybe … do you – I mean, I could –" Edward breaks off with a sigh. As much as he wants to see Bella, coming home for what would essentially be a booty call makes him feel a little weird.

"It's okay," she says quietly. "It's only a few more days."

"Yeah." Edward looks up as a little girl in a bright green swimsuit goes racing past him, her strawberry blonde curls bouncing. "Ah, I think I'm about to–"

"Edward!" Riley, in pink bathers, waves frantically but keeps running, chasing after her sister, "Vicky! Wait for me."

"Your cousins?"

Edward groans as he gets to his feet, following the path of little footprints down to the water's edge. "Yep."

Bella smiles, imagining Edward playing lifeguard to the four-year-old twins. "I'll let you go."

"I'll call you later tonight?"

"Okay." She hesitates, licking her lips. "Maybe from somewhere no one can overhear you."

He groans, pulling his hand through his hair. He swallows hard. "Talk to you soon."

Bella's playful tone dissipates, becoming soft and a little wistful. "Bye, Edward."

"See ya."

Edward pulls his singlet off and wraps it around his phone and sunglasses. It's comforting, he decides, hearing that same mix of longing and hesitancy he's feeling echoed in Bella's voice.

"Catch me, Edward!"

"No, me! Chase me!"

With a sigh, he takes off after his little cousins. They squeal and run in circles, arms flapping, kicking up sand, until Edward grabs one under each arm and charges into the water, their giggles ringing in his ears.

* * *

The morning of the thirtieth, Bella sets her alarm to wake her at five o'clock. Edward told her he was going to drive straight out from Redhead to start work at three this morning, and she's missed him too much to settle for waiting until their lunch break to see him. She climbs out of bed, pulls on a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, slips on her thongs, and sets off across the dew-damp grass in the early morning half-light.

She stifles a yawn as she walks, watching the sky lighten, the lavender and pink morning seeping through the dark blue of night and chasing away the shadows that lie across the land.

She finds Edward a few blocks over from the cottage, kneeling amongst the vines. "What're you doin'?"

Edward looks up at her, one hand shading his eyes from the sun, which is just starting to appear over the horizon. "Hey, you. What are you doing up?" He plucks a few grapes from the bunch, seemingly at random, and stands up with a groan.

"I wanted to see you," Bella says simply. "I couldn't wait until lunch." She looks at the bucket beside him. "Do these taste better than the gross ones you're growing?"

He laughs, reaching for her. He pauses, hand curled around her elbow. "I want to kiss you, but I probably stink already."

Bella raises her eyebrows. "It's five o'clock. I'm still in my pyjamas. Do you think I care? I got up early just to–"

Her explanation is muffled then cuts off completely as Edward pulls her close and lowers his mouth to meet hers.

Standing on her tiptoes, Bella's moves her hands up Edward's shoulders before weaving her fingers into his hair, tugging him closer. He groans into their kiss, unable to settle hands. He smoothes across her back, slides his hands down the curve of her hip. He squeezes her arse, then traces his thumb under the hem of the little t-shirt she's wearing.

When she pulls away for air, Edward doesn't let her go. His lips trail across her cheek and down her neck, sliding his hand under her shirt, warm fingers cupping her naked breast, his thumb brushing across her nipple. Bella's breath catches and he pulls back to look her in the eye. "We – I shoulda – _fuck_." He shakes his head, moving the hand under her shirt to her waist and pulling her close for a more chaste kiss. His forehead resting on hers, he sighs.

"Hi." She smiles.

He chuckles. "Hi, yourself."

"So, um, what _are_ you doing?"

"Mmm, something much less interesting than what I want to be doing." He waves a hand at the bucket at his feet. "I need to check the pH and sugar content. So I'm randomly picking berries from across the block, and then I'll squash 'em and see how they're going."

Bella wrinkles her nose as she looks at the green berries he's collected. "Do these ones taste as bad?" Without waiting for his answer, she picks one off the nearest vine and pops it into her mouth.

She grimaces, "It's not as bad, but still gross."

Edward shakes his head, his lips twitching towards a smile. "They're not ripe yet."

"This is Semillon, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Is it–" Bella lowers her voice "–going to be drinkable? 'Cause the grapes taste pretty nasty. Or is it a bad vintage?"

Edward chuckles. "It's shaping up to be a great vintage. Although if we get a lot of rain later in summer, as they're predicting, we might have problems with the reds. But these–" he plucks another grape from the vine in front of him and tosses it into the bucket "–aren't ready yet. The pH is still too low, as is the sugar content."

Bella tips her head at him. "Low pH means high level of acid, right?"

"Yep. So they probably taste way too tart at the moment. But, even when they're ripe, they're not as sweet–"

"As table grapes."

"Exactly." He picks up the bucket. "Come on. We need to do some more sampling and then I'll show you."

* * *

In the lab, Bella sits on a stool at the bench and watches Edward squeeze juice from the grapes he's collected. Bella likes the lab, and not just for the ridiculously comfortable stools lined up under the bench. She looks around the room as Edward works, studying the posters tacked onto the walls.

The colourful _Wine Aroma Wheel_, and _Wine Mouth-Feel Wheel_ are her favourites. She's spent a lot of time staring at them, trying to reconcile the descriptors circling them with the wines she's tasted. At first she scoffed at some of the words—_"chamois, sawdust, soapy? Seriously?"_ Edward had just laughed, but within a few days, he'd set a few glasses on the bench in front of her and she had had to admit that the descriptors had validity.

There's another poster that identifies grape vine varietals by the shape of its leaves, and a number that look as though they may be relics from Edward's university studies: a comparison of various fining agents, and one that has something to do with the effects of sprinkler usage.

"I could stay in here all day," she sighs.

Edward chuckles, his eyes on the juice he's pouring into a beaker. "That's the idea." He settles a probe into it. "pH meter," he explains with a wave. "But in here, because we use it for tasting and stuff, it's been designed to be comfortable. So, yeah, ergonomic stools, the white benches and walls, special lighting …" He shrugs. "Everything's designed to minimise the impact on your other senses."

He picks up a small silver tube, which Bella thinks looks a lot like a lightsabre handle, and droppers some water from the bottle labeled "distilled water" onto the little panel at the end. "This is a Brix refractometer. It, well, it actually measures how much the light bends when it goes through the liquid, but that tells us basically how much sugar has accumulated in the berry."

He hands it to her. "Point it at the light, and look through here."

Bella obeys, closing her left eye and looking through the tube.

"Do you see the markings?"

"Mmm. It's reading zero, right?"

"Yeah. Now…" He takes the device from her, wipes the panel and droppers some juice onto it. "Have a look now."

"Uh, it's around 13, right?" She hands it back, and Edward holds it up and looks through.

"Yep." He sets it down. "13 degrees Brix is about–" he jabs at the calculator on the bench "–7.2 Baumé, right? Which means if we picked the grapes now and started fermentation, and all the sugar was converted to ethanol, we'd end up with an alcohol content of about 7.2 percent. "

Bella frowns, trying to remember all the labels she's read since she started in the Cellar Door. "That's very low, isn't it?"

He nods. "Yeah. Ideally, we want to pick this at about 22 degrees Brix, which is a Baumé of around 12, 12.5." He glances at the pH meter. "The pH is 2.9," he scratches his head. "We'll check the TA now."

"TA?"

"Titratable acidity."

Bella watches Edward as he works. She likes seeing him in his element, confident and practiced, wearing the white lab coat and the safety glasses he somehow makes seem sexy instead of goofy. She fiddles with the sleeves of the lab coat he asked her to put on over her pyjamas. She feels ridiculous wearing it, and asks him if they're really necessary—_wine can't be that dangerous can it?_ He just chuckles and tells her that it's good practice, and also, yes, he does use some chemicals that can be more hazardous than the grape juice he's currently working with.

"Okay. So the titratable acidity's at 14 grams per litre." He moves to his computer and taps away for a moment.

"So ..?"

Edward smiles. "So, there's not enough sugar, and there's too much acid." He taps his fingers on the bench. "Rough guess, we'll be harvesting Semillon in about three to four weeks. Probably around Australia Day."

* * *

Angela opens the door with a tightlipped smile, but her grin widens as Bella bounces up the stairs and kisses her on both cheeks. "Hey, Angie!"

Edward bites down on his bottom lip to hide his smile. Angela has warmed slowly to Bella but he doesn't want to draw attention to it. His reserved, stoic friend can be completely contrary at times, and he doesn't really want things to regress to uncomfortable silences and stiffly answered questions. He gives Angela a kiss on the cheek and follows after Bella, guided by the sound of cheerful greetings and her bright giggles.

Edward is uneasy with the way time seems to be slipping through their fingers. Tonight, as they stare down the barrel of the new year, he keeps reminding himself to just enjoy this, whatever it is, now. It's likely to be months before Bella decides what her plans are for after her visa expires.

_Just be_, he tells himself.

He finds Bella in the kitchen, a glass of white wine in one hand. She offers it to him with a lift of her eyebrows.

He takes a sip, swishing the liquid around in his mouth far more than necessary. He swallows, and shakes his head. "Please, that's too easy. Lemon, lime, gorgeous florals, with that minerality? Riesling, Clare Valley. Less than two years old."

Bella pouts as she shows him the bottle, and Edward's smile turns smug. "Toldya. Too easy."

She pours him a glass but holds it away from him, shaking her head and puckering her lips. Edward kisses her, smile to smile, raising his hand and extending his middle finger in the direction of the hoots and whistles coming from his mates.

Bella pulls away, winking at him as she hands him the wine. "Come on." She links her fingers with his and leads him outside.

They stand around the barbeque as the evening takes over, purples and blues washing away the last of the day, the group shrinking and expanding as people move in and out of conversations.

Edward watches Bella interact with his friends—who have so easily become her friends, too. At first, they may have been welcoming of her for his sake, but as she races Charlotte to the pool, or tosses Angela another bottle of cider, or throws a handful of ice down Garrett's shirt, he can see that no one sees her as an extension of him, but as another member of their little crowd. _She belongs here_, he thinks. _But can she stay here? Will she want to?_

When the first stars appear in the navy sky, he leaves Garrett and Maggie arguing with Charlotte about the impacts of coal seam gas mining in the region, and lifts Bella out of the chair she's perched in. She smiles as he sits down, pulling her onto his lap.

He knows Bella finds Pete and Alistair particularly entertaining, and apparently, the feeling is mutual. Alistair lights a citronella coil, and the two boys pull up chairs beside them. They spend a good half hour asking Bella about living in the U.S., and then asking her to say various words, giggling like a pair of four year olds over the differences between her accent and their own.

Bella narrows her eyes, looking between them. "You do realise you two have quite different accents, don't you?"

Alistair laughs. "We don't have accents."

Edward rolls his eyes, shifting Bella's weight on his lap, and sneaking a sip of the beer she's nursing.

"No, seriously." She looks at Alistair. "Say 'school.'"

"School."

"Now you." She jabs a finger at Pete.

"School."

"Can't you hear that? The difference."

Pete and Alistair look at each other, bewildered.

Edward groans, resting his chin on Bella's shoulder as he looks between his mates. "Pete, you say 'skewl,' and 'pewl.'" He kisses her neck. "Pete's from Cairns originally."

She looks over her shoulder. "That's up north, right?"

"Yep. Far north Queensland."

He snickers when he catches Pete's frown.

"School, pool, cool."

Alistair frowns. "You _do_ say it weird."

"Fuck off. _You_ say it weird."

Edward wraps his arms around Bella and pulls her back against his chest as Pete launches himself at Alistair and they both go crashing to the ground. She giggles, then gasps as Edward's lips find her earlobe, tugging gently.

"Edward–"

"Mmm. Is there a problem?"

Her voice shakes. "Not at all." She leans her head against his shoulder and wriggles on his lap, making him groan. "Not nice is it?" She smirks.

"On the contrary," he murmurs, "it's very, very nice." He sighs. "Though the time and place are all wrong."

Bella snickers. "No, just the place. The time is very right, as far as I'm concerned."

"Shit, Bella."

She turns her head and kisses his neck. "It would be bad manners to sneak off and make out in Angela's bed, wouldn't it?"

"Incredibly." Angela scowls as she plops into the chair Pete just vacated. She waggles a finger at Edward. "And there's no way you'd stop at pashing. And just, no. Ew. Can't you wait a few more hours?"

Edward nods, his smile sheepish, but Bella shakes her head and sighs heavily. "You know, Ange, I don't think I can."

"Seriously, girl, if I catch you–"

"Catch who doing what?" Tanya slides into the other empty chair.

"Hi, Tanya." Bella leans forward and pats the stunning blonde's knee.

Despite the friendly gesture, Edward notices the tiny thread of tension run through Bella. He sees it in the way she starts to pick at the label of her empty bottle, feels it in the way she leans back against him, her foot curling around his calf.

"Hey, Bella." Tanya smiles, her gaze flicking over Bella's head, meeting Edward's. "Hey, you."

"Hey, T. How's it going?"

"Pretty good." She smiles, and Edward can see the truth of her answer in the lines creasing around her eyes. Her smile is genuine, her eyes clear—she's doing well.

They make small talk for a while, Bella and Angela and Tanya chattering away about their resolutions for the new year. Bella stands after a moment, and Edward resists the urge to pull her back onto his lap. She turns to Angela, "Wanna go for a dip?"

Angela nods, and accepts the hand Bella holds out to her, getting to her feet with a groan.

Bella turns back to Edward. Her smile is small. "Come find me soon?"

He crooks a finger and she bends down, kissing him softly. "Very soon," he promises.

Tanya watches Bella and Angela pull their dresses over their heads and hang them on the pool fence. "Bella's pretty adorable."

Edward smiles. "She is."

"You guys are good together." There's no trace of bitterness or resentment in Tanya's tone. "You look happy, Mase."

"I am happy." Edward tips his head, studying his old friend. He lowers his voice, "You look good, too. You doing okay?"

Tanya nods, playing with the ring pull on her can of Solo. "Yeah. I feel … I don't know about good, but definitely better." She tips her face up, speaking to the stars stretched out overhead. "I'm getting some help. Counseling. Meds. All that stuff."

Edward nods, his hands linked behind his head as he copies her, gazing up into the night sky. "Tassie's been good to you, then?"

"I guess so. I mean, it's been a challenge—work, uni, plus all the other stuff, but it's been good. I've coped."

"They look after you all right?"

"Yeah. The boss is a legend, and I've made some good friends, too. I mean, it's not home yet, but I think it will be."

"Nice."

The conversation turns to work, and they exchange notes on the current season, and the new techniques and practices they're experimenting with or reading up on, looking at the sky rather than each other. Garrett wanders over after a while and joins them, the three assistant winemakers swapping stories and talking up the current vintage.

Hands still behind his head, elbows pointed out, Edward swivels in his chair. He spots Bella sitting at the edge of the pool, her legs dangling in the water. She lifts her heavy hair and squeezes some of the water from it.

As Edward watches, she looks over her shoulder at him. She smiles when their eyes meet, then giggles as he moves one hand to his mouth and blows her a kiss.

Edward turns back to Tanya and Garrett and gets to his feet. He squeezes Tanya's shoulder as he passes her. "Take care, T."

Her hand covers his for a moment. "Hold onto her, Mase."

"I intend to," he mutters, more to himself than to Tanya.

Bella meets him halfway across the yard, a towel wrapped around her waist. She offers him her beer, but he shakes his head. He drops his lips to her ear. "I'm not drinking. I want to be able to leave as soon as we've counted down to midnight."

* * *

They don't make it to twelve o'clock.

It's barely gone ten-thirty when Edward is fumbling with the lock on his front door. Bella is behind him, moving her hands under his t-shirt, across the warm skin of his belly, then sliding down his board shorts.

The door flies open and they stumble inside, kicking off thongs and dumping keys and phones. Edward barely remembers to kick it closed again before his hands are fumbling with Bella's dress. Pushing her against the wall in his hallway, he drops to his knees, ignoring the protests of bones pressing on hard timber, and pushes her dress up.

Her still wet bikinis bottoms land on the floor with a slap. Her skin tastes of chlorine, but Edward doesn't care as he pushes her knees apart and trails kisses up her thighs. She squirms, holding the hem of her dress around her waist with one hand, the other weaving into Edward's swimming-stiff hair. She tugs him close, tilting her pelvis, panting as first his fingers and then his tongue move across her wet flesh.

The back of Bella's head thumps against the wall, the photograph beside her rattles on its hook. "Fuck, Edward. Oh. _Oh_." She gasps and stutters as she dissolves against Edward's tongue.

Boneless and endorphin-drunk, Bella smiles lazy as Edward scoops her up and carries her towards his bedroom. He lays her on his bed, and seeing her there, sprawled across the rumpled blue covers he didn't straighten this morning, the skirt of her dress still bunched around her waist, pulls a groan from his throat.

Her giggle like mush in her mouth, Bella pulls her dress over her head and unties the strings of her bikini top. "Come here, you."

Edward smirks. He doesn't need to be told twice. Kicking off his shorts and pulling his shirt over his head, he climbs onto the bed, kissing her hard, covering her with his body.

Her still swimming-cool fingers move between them. He grunts as she strokes him, her movements unhurried.

"Do you have–"

"Fuck." Edward rolls off her, breathing hard. He reaches into the drawer in his nightstand. "_Fuck_."

Bella smiles. "Your lack of presumption is a kinda cute, you know?"

"I'm glad you think so," Edward mutters, his hands fisted in his hair.

"I've got some in my handbag," Bella tells him. She moves over him, kissing his neck. Her hair covers her face as her lips move down his chest. "I'll get them in a minute."

"Wh–" Edward forgets his question as her mouth closes over him. Her reaches for her, gathering her hair out of her face. Dark eyes sparkle as they meet his, and then he can't look anymore. His senses overloaded, his eyes squeeze shut. "Fuck, Bella."

She hums a laugh.

He tugs on her hair. "Bella, I'm–"

She hums again and Edward's back arches as every muscle pulls tight and then relaxes, like an elastic band stretched to its limit and then released.

He lazy-smiles at Bella, his eyelids heavy, as she crawls off the bed. She chuckles and leans over him, kissing his nose. "I'll be back in a sec."

He hears her running the tap in the bathroom.

He's half-asleep when she walks back into the room, still naked, but carrying her handbag. He chuckles. She winks at him, sliding under the sheets and wriggling close. "We'll need them later."

* * *

For the record, I consider Bella's views utterly blasphemous. Test cricket is the greatest game that was ever invented. And for all my British readers… _Bring on The Ashes! _(And no, I don't want you to remind me how poorly the Australian cricket team performed on the subcontinent, thank you.)

Also, thongs = flip-flops. Not underwear.

* * *

**A/N: My sincerest apologies for my review-reply fail. I haven't had the best time lately, with that old black dog biting at my ankles. Please know that I treasure them all - I do so love hearing your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading.**

**BelieveItOrNot, there aren't enough words - thank you so much, my lovely friend. You're amazing.**

**Love, Shell x**


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter 11._

* * *

Vintage starts early in the Hunter Valley this year, with the Chardonnay and Verdhelo crops coming off the vines first. The region swarms with people, both the seasonal harvest workers who flood the area, working in the vineyards that handpick their fruit, and the tourists streaming in to enjoy the Australian summer.

By early January, the temperatures in the Hunter Valley have skyrocketed into the early-forties. The days are long and hot, as dry, scorching winds blast through the region from the west.

Bushfires further south send great plumes of black smoke towering into the sky, filling the air with the scent of burning eucalypts and filtering the sunlight to an eerie orange-grey.

Bella sees very little of Edward as he stalks through the vineyards, sampling berries, one eye on the sky at all times. He's a little concerned the ash that dusts the area will have a negative impact on the wine quality, and he's continually sampling the vines, checking not only for berry ripeness and acid levels, but monitoring flavour development.

"I think she'll be right," he mumbles, his mouth still full of the Sauvignon Blanc juice he's just crushed for analysis.

Bella takes a sip of the juice and wrinkles her nose. She should be eating her lunch, but she stole down to the lab on her break. Her hunger is not for food, but the man she's barely seen this week.

"The Savvy won't be ready to pick for another few weeks," he tells her with a laugh. He kisses her nose. She grabs the lapels of his lab coat, holds him to her face. She kisses him hard—too desperate to taste him to give a damn about professionalism or propriety.

Edward doesn't seem to mind, wrapping his arms around her waist and sliding his tongue into her mouth. Their kiss is tart, the lemongrass and passionfruit character the Sauvignon Blanc has already developed lingers.

"Aw, come on. That's just gross." Jasper's voice filters into their awareness. Edward flips him off, not lifting his lips from Bella's.

Jasper sighs loudly. "Bella, Mum said she's heaps sorry, but a busload of old ducks just turned up, and she needs you."

Bella pulls away from Edward—it takes a lot of effort. He's been up before three in the morning most days—the fruit needs to be harvested and transported in the coolest part of the day, which isn't really part of the _day_ at all, in her opinion—and the early starts means he tends to crash into a comatose-like sleep well before she finishes up in the Cellar Door at eight o'clock in the evening.

"Ducks?" She shakes her head.

"You know, old ladies. Old ducks."

"Right." Bella rubs a hand over her face, pushing sweat-damp strands of hair off her cheeks. Fishing her front door key out of her pocket, she pushes it into Edward's hand. "You better be in my bed when I knock off."

He chuckles at the Australianism that's slipped into her vernacular, but nods. "I'll be there."

Jasper is muttering something about Edward needing to make sure he wipes down the benches, but Bella ignores him and kisses Edward softly. "See ya later."

She turns to Jasper. "Well, come on then. Let's go sell wine to ducks."

* * *

The cottage's front door is unlocked when she gets home, the last of the day slipping behind the mountains. Bella takes that, and the rumble of the air conditioner, as a sign that Edward listened to her instructions, and is currently sprawled across her bed.

She checks her watch—it's 8:30 pm. Though she is sweaty and sticky from the walk from the Cellar Door back to the cottage, she doesn't head straight for the shower. Instead, she settles at the breakfast table with her laptop. It's too early—or late—to Skype with her father, so she writes a brief email, asking for more photos of little Seth, and telling him about the blistering heat that's blanketing the region.

She reads an email from Rosalie, who is apparently in Cairns with Emmett, having spent a few weeks exploring the reefs and islands. She indicates they're heading south now, and should be in the Hunter in a few weeks time. Bella smiles at the number of times Rose uses _we_ in her email. It makes her happy, thinking of the pair of them getting up to goodness knows what up and down the east coast of the continent.

There are a few emails from Jacob, too, which Bella scans but doesn't reply to. She has nothing to say to him.

She potters around her kitchen, throwing together a mango-avocado salad, and eating in the kind of silence that's peaceful instead of lonely. She's had a few nights like this in a row, eating alone in her quiet kitchen, but somehow, knowing Edward is sleeping on the other side of the wall brings unexpected comfort.

She rests her hand on the plasterboard beside her. The hum of the air conditioner vibrates into her fingertips, like the bedroom itself is breathing.

Yawning, Bella washes up her plate and smoothes Gladwrap over the leftovers. She writes a note, telling Edward to help himself to anything he wants when he breakfasts.

In the shower, she doesn't bother turning the warm water on. Instead, she stands under the cold water, eyes closed, feeling the heat finally ebb from her bones.

Once she's washed the day's sweat and dirt away, Bella wraps herself in a towel and tiptoes into her bedroom. She doesn't want to wake Edward; it's simply enough to know that he's there, to hear his quiet snores, and feel the warm weight of his body beside hers.

* * *

It's dark, the only light in the room comes from the luminescent green numbers that tell Bella it's half past two in the morning.

Half-awake, half-lingering in needy, aroused dreams, Bella's moan is as soft as the night as warm hands slide across her bare belly. Her blood pulses heavy between her legs, her dream continuing in wakefulness.

Edward's voice is still thick and cracked with sleep. "Bella?"

Her "yes" is quiet, and could be the answer to his question, or in response to the fingers that slip between her legs.

"I think you were dreaming," he says, his voice low. His chest presses into her back. She can feel him, stiff and wanting, against her backside.

"Mmm."

One hand between her legs, the other moving across her breasts, Edward scrapes his teeth around the shell of her ear. "Were you dreaming about me?"

She reaches back, sliding her arm around his neck and into his hair, her back bowing. "Yes."

Edward breaks her hold, rolling away for a moment, but even the warmth of his body leaving hers, and the sliding of drawers and the soft crackle of plastic can do nothing to dispel the quiet that drapes the room, like a held breath, the moment before lips meet in a kiss.

And then his lips are on her shoulder, hot puffs of breath sliding across her back. His fingers are warm on her hip as he guides himself inside her.

They are unhurried; gasps and moans spilling as bodies rock slow.

Edward links his fingers with Bella's, guides them down her curves to where they are joined.

Her breath catches as her blood turns effervescent. Pleasure radiates to the tips of her fingers and toes and prickles across her scalp.

Edward groans against her shoulder, pressing his teeth against her skin. She feels him tense, feels his rhythm falter as he comes apart, the arm circled around her pulling her close, closer.

Bella drifts in and out of sleep as Edward strokes the hair off her neck and kisses across her shoulders. She feels more than hears him roll out of bed, taking his warmth with him.

More kisses. The sheet being smoothed over her shoulder.

More kisses. He smells of soap and warm, shower-damp skin.

More kisses. "I'll see you this arvo, okay?"

* * *

The Semillon is picked, as Edward predicted, towards the end of January.

The fruit looks to be in excellent condition, and while most of it will be produced in a more traditional fashion, Edward is planning on fermenting a portion of the grapes on skins using indigenous yeast.

"Basically," he tells Esme, leaning against the counter in the Cellar Door, "I'm going to treat it like a red wine. And I'm also not going to inoculate it—we'll let the wild yeasts take over—see what we can come up with."

It's a rare quiet morning in the Cellar Door, and Edward is waiting for Bella to finish assisting the couple of middle-aged men who are Shiraz-tasting, so he can drag her off for a cup of tea—and kiss her breathless.

"That's absolutely ridiculous," one of the men says, turning away from Bella and looking at Edward. "It will be completely undrinkable. You bloody upstart winemakers, thinking you know better than hundreds of years of tradition can teach you."

Edward presses his lips together to hide his smirk. "I don't see a problem with trying something different. We'll still produce a classic Hunter Sem. Despite the heat and a slightly early harvest, it's a great vintage. We're expecting tight acidity, beautiful line and length. Should be a cracker. Especially with some bottle age."

The disapprover huffs a little, but his companion grins. "I don't know a lot about winemaking," he says. "But what would you expect from your experimental batch then?"

Bella smiles at the way Edward's shoulders straighten and his hands move as he speaks, his passion palpable. The two guys—even the scoffer—seem almost hypnotised as he explains that he will blend the portion he ferments in a red-wine style with some that he'll stop fermenting whilst there's still some residual sugar, in the hope that the sweetness will offset the acidity, as well as the increased phenolics the skin-fermented portion will introduce.

"So it'll be very complex, textural, a little sweet." He tips his head from side to side, thinking. "Lemongrass, peach—almost a sweet and sour kind of thing, really."

Bella continues to listen as the two men ask him some questions about the current vintage, hearing not so much his words but the passion and enthusiasm behind them.

He jumps behind the bar, nudging her hip with his. He pulls out the '08, '09 and '10 Shirazes, and takes the men—and Esme and Bella—through what he calls a vertical tasting, talking them through the differences between the three vintages.

Bella sips the wines, but her mind isn't in the glass. She watches Edward smile as the disapproving guy nods enthusiastically, pontificating about the line and length of the violet-red liquid in his glass.

_He's an artist_, she thinks. His medium isn't paper and pen or canvas and paint, but nonetheless, he creates. Science informs him, precision is paramount, but like the painter or the poet, Edward brings together his raw materials and creates something beautiful. The calculations and the chemistry, the hard labour, the constant sampling—it seems like a scientific process. And it is. But now, watching him explain the way the warming climate will impact wine production across the globe, Bella sees past that to the artistic instinct, the creative process that allows him to consider the grapes on his vines and extrapolate the beauty he will be able to squeeze from them.

The two gentlemen leave half an hour later with half a dozen cases of wine—some to drink now and some to lay down in their cellar.

Esme shakes her head as she spears the credit card receipt, adding it to the pile beside the register. Bella tips her head, silently querying the older woman's frown. Esme jerks her thumb at Edward, who is helping the men load their boxes of wine into the car. "I need him in here more often."

Bella laughs. "His enthusiasm is infectious, isn't it?"

"Yes. And wallet-opening, too. I swear, every time he comes up to give us a hand, he ends up out-selling everyone else in five minutes flat." Esme squeezes Bella's shoulder. "Go make yourself a cup of tea, honey—I'll send him out when he's finished with these two."

Bella is just stirring milk into her tea—remembering, for once, that Edward takes his black—when she hears a familiar laugh bouncing off the elegant walls of the tasting room.

Leaving the spoon in the mug, and the milk carton on the bench, Bella jogs out of the break room and very nearly runs straight into a laughing Rosalie, who catches her, and pulls her straight into a warm embrace.

"Isabella! How are you, love?" Rose steps back, hands closing around Bella's elbows. Bella feels Rose's blue eyes trace across her face, and she shifts her weight, wondering what she sees. Rose's smile slips away, but her expression is soft. "You look happy," she murmurs.

Bella smiles as movement over Rosalie's shoulder catches her attention. Edward closes the door as he steps back inside, his gaze flicking towards the bar. A frown creases his brow as he registers Bella's absence, but smoothes out as soon as his eyes meets hers.

"Ah." Rose chuckles. "I suspect I've just located the source of said happiness."

Bella's chin lifts, but she catches her nod before it can really start. Edward makes her happy, but he's not her only source of contentment. She's fallen in love with more than just his warm smile and easy companionship. She loves living here, the friends she's made, the pace of life, the job she fell into. More than that, she loves who she's becoming in this place.

_Huh._ Her lips twitch, but she holds back the smile. The realisation dawns slowly and sinks so softly into her bones, until it feels like maybe that knowledge has always been there. _I love him._

"He's definitely a big part of it," she tells Rose. "Not all of it."

Rosalie smiles, and Bella feels like she's passed some kind of test. "Good." She squeezes Bella's arms once more, then releases her.

"Isabella!" A bigger form hip-checks Rose out of the way, and Bella finds herself surrounded by the scent of sunscreen and man-deodorant.

"Hey, Emmett."

He pulls back, and he, like Rosalie, studies Bella carefully. She wonders if she looks that different, if her friends can see the inside changes on her outside.

"Lookin' good, girl."

Edward leans against the bar, looking between the tall, blonde girl, the enormous bear of a guy, and Bella.

Rosalie turns towards him, maybe she can feel his gaze, his curiosity. "Hi," she says. "I'm Rosalie, and this is Emmett." Her accent is all Edward needs to place her in Bella's stories from her first few weeks in the country.

He extends a hand. "Edward."

"Nice to meet you."

The other guy, Emmett, releases Bella and turns towards him immediately, shaking his hand. "Good to meet ya, man."

Four pairs of eyes dart from face to face, until Rosalie links her fingers with Emmett and Bella raises her eyebrows. "Interesting."

Rose pokes her tongue out. "Sod off."

Edward chuckles, his hand sliding across the small of Bella's back to rest on her hip. She relaxes into him, the top of her head under his chin, her hair tickling his neck. He half-listens as Emmett and Rosalie tell Bella all about their journey up and down the east coast of Australia, his fingers absently twisting in the ends of her hair.

"She was like, Steve bloody Irwin or something. I'm all, 'let's get the hell out of here, before it decides to eat us' and she's all 'ooh, it's so pretty.' I thought—no, like seriously, I thought she was going to try to pick it up. Blasted thing was taller than I am!"

As Emmett tells them about Rosalie's reaction to coming across a green tree snake whilst they explored the Daintree Rainforest, a group of three middle-aged couples wander into the Cellar Door.

Bella looks up. "Oh. I've gotta–"

"Good morning," Esme steps out of her office and smiles at the newcomers. "Welcome to Cullen Family Wines. Are you interested in tasting some of our range today?"

She looks across at the foursome, jerking her head towards the door. "Edward, why don't you take Bella's friends on a tour of the winery."

She shakes her head as Bella opens her mouth to offer her assistance. "It's fine, honey. I'll call Carlisle or Jasper for a hand if it gets too busy."

* * *

Edward does lead them on a tour through the winery, and Rose and Emmett show appropriate interest as he talks them through the winemaking process, but the fierce midday heat eventually chases them under the shade of Bella's front porch.

"This place is adorable," Rose calls, flopping down onto the deck. "Goodness, girl, how on earth will you tear yourself away from here?"

Bella pauses on her way back out the front door, a bottle of Semillon in one hand, two glasses in her other. "Maybe I won't."

Rosalie must hear something in her tone, or see something in her expression, because though her lips twitch, she makes no further comment.

Edward follows Bella out the door, carrying a few more wine glasses, and a platter of cheeses and dried fruit. Bella's words tumble over and over in his mind, pumping through his veins. _Maybe I won't. Maybe I won't_.

He gives no outward indication that he heard the girls' exchange as he folds himself onto the decking and leans back against the balcony railing. Lost in his mind, he watches Bella smile and laugh as she unscrews the bottle cap and pours four glasses. Her legs crossed in front of her, she's unbuttoned the plain black blouse that serves as her work uniform to reveal a bright pink camisole. Edward watches as she twists the bottle at the end of a pour, not spilling a drop of wine. He doesn't understand why noticing that makes him feel even warmer inside.

Her face is shadowed, but somehow still lit up. It's something that goes beyond the sheen of perspiration on her brow, and the sun-blonde that's lightened her hair. It comes from somewhere deep inside her—she's thriving.

"Edward?"

He blinks; the apologies on his lips fall away as Bella winks at him. He takes the glass she is holding out to him, thanking her quietly. She grins. "I heard the dude who makes this has turned rogue. Enjoy this. The next vintage, whew …" She wriggles her eyebrows. "Could be a doozy."

He snorts, clinking his glass against hers. "To doozies."

"Oh." Bella lowers her glass, her expression morphing again, her smile turning sly. "Is this wine that bad?"

"Uh," Edward looks between Bella and the wine. His nose is already in the glass when his brain catches up. "You know it makes one feel rather good deciding not to be a bitch."

Bella collapses into giggles. "I love it when you Hemingway me."

She scoots across the decking to sit beside him. She catches the bemused look Rose and Emmett exchange, but she doesn't elaborate. It feels good, having inside jokes, things that belong to just them. Edward's arm slides behind her back, his fingertips brushing the top of her thigh as he pulls her close. She doesn't care that it's hot, and he's sweat-damp and too warm, or that she probably doesn't smell particularly fresh, judging by the sweat pooling under her arms and dripping down her back.

Conversation flows like the lazy breeze that eddies around them, warm and seemingly without direction.

Edward finds himself alone with Emmett when Rose follows Bella inside to look at the photos of baby Seth Charlie emails through almost daily. They look at each other, close-lipped smiles in place, the silence suddenly awkward and too loud.

Fumbling for something to say, Edward jerks his chin at the brace supporting Emmett's knee. "Snowboarding?"

Emmett nods. "Originally, yeah. Finally got the brace off, and stupidly got talked into a game of what was supposed to be touch footy."

"Shit."

"Yeah." He tips his head towards the house. "She's completely crazy."

Edward's eyes go wide. "Rosalie? She – what, she tackled you?"

Emmett nods, rubbing a hand across his dark hair. "Yeah." He grins as he looks at his knee, like he thinks it's the best thing that's ever happened to him. "She scares the shit out of my boys—they're still wary of tackling her, but she doesn't hold back."

"Yeah, right." Edward shakes his head, trying to picture Rosalie on the rugby pitch. "Are you gunna be all right? The knee, I mean?"

Emmett grimaces. "Probably gunna have to have a reconstruction, actually."

"Bugger."

"Yep." Emmett picks up the dark brown bottle in front of him, squinting as he holds it up to the sun. He pours out the last few millilitres, and swallows it in one go. Looking into his empty glass, he speaks quietly. "Do you – I mean, if she goes back, have you thought about what you're gunna do?"

A sulphur-crested cockatoo lands on the grass in front of Bella's cottage, its feathers ruffled as it waddles across the grass. Its comb flashing bright yellow, it screeches as its companions circle overhead.

Edward picks up a cracker and flicks it at the bird, which startles but then hops over to the biscuit and picks it up in its beak. "I don't know," he says. "She doesn't refer to Colorado as home anymore. But if she wanted to go back to the States?" He shrugs. "They make wine in every state."

"Given that some thought, hey?"

"A bit." That's a lie. Edward knows exactly which states he would be able to find work in, and which wineries he'll be contacting the moment Bella mentions moving home. He sighs. "I mean …" He throws another cracker at the cockatoo, which attracts several more down to the grass and sets the first bird to screeching again. "It's up to her. But if she has to go, and if she'll have me …"

"You're lucky," Emmett says. There's a bitterness in his tone that makes Edward frown. "I haven't got any qualifications—no degree, no trade. I've spent the last however many years bumming around, doing whatever I could to earn enough money get me from one place to the next. And now, when I've found her … I mean, I don't really wanna be stuck behind the bar at some crummy backpacker-filled pub in London for the rest of my life, but–"

"But you want to be where she is?"

"Of course, man. I love her."

Hearing those words fall from the other man's mouth loosens something in Edward's chest. The feeling's been there for weeks, but hasn't named it. He's been content to just enjoy it, to know it was there. He tasted it and savoured it, but unlike the wines Bella tests him with, he didn't try to pin it down.

Now, though, the words move from his ears to his heart, and they stick, like a label wrapping around a wine bottle on the production line. _I love her. I love her._

* * *

**A/N: Thank you so much for reading, and for all your lovely reviews. I appreciate them heaps.**

**And the hugest of thanks to BelieveItOrNot, whom I admire and adore. Thank you, bb. Your assistance, advice and friendship is such a gift.**

**Love, Shell x**


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter 12_.

* * *

A warm breeze blows through Bella's hair as she watches the taillights of Emmett's car disappear into the fading afternoon. The wind picks up the spray of the sprinkler _chek-chek-cheking_ across the lawn, surrounding Bella with a mist that beads on her hair and makes it curl.

The sound of their tyres on the drive makes Bella wonder why she doesn't feel the need to race around the continent, seeing everything she can whilst she's here. There's a part of her that's curious, that would like to see more of the country, but it's a patient curiosity. There's no rush. She's content where she is; her roots growing deep and strong.

Rosalie and Emmett had only lingered in the Hunter Valley for a few days, before they decided it was time to start heading inland.

"Where are you going to go?" Bella said, leaning into the arm Edward had draped across her shoulders.

"I want to see Ayers Rock," Rose told them.

Emmett and Edward corrected her at the same time. "Uluru."

Rose pressed her lips together but her chuckle still escaped. "Okay." She pushed her damp hair off her face.

"We're aiming for Perth," Emmett explained, tossing his car keys from hand to hand. "I've always wanted to drive across the Nullabor, she wants to see Uluru. The rest—we'll just play it by ear."

Edward nodded. "You going south first? Great Ocean Road and all that?"

"Yeah, I reckon."

"Nice."

There was a flurry of handshakes and hugs and cheek kisses and "goodbye" and "we'll Skype soon" and "drive safe, mate" and then they were gone.

Edward catches Bella's hand and turns her away from the disappearing car. She smiles up at him.

"Hi."

He chuckles. "Hi, yourself." His smile fades as he searches her face. He cups her cheek, thumb trailing across her cheekbone, dew-damp in the sprinkler's rain. He means to ask her if she's happy here, or if, like Emmett and Rose she has itchy feet—if there are things she wants to do or see, places she'd rather be—but his question dies in his throat. He can see the answer in her eyes. There's a peace and contentment there, confirmed by the smile curving her lips and the hand that covers his, holding him to her.

He drops his forehead to hers and kisses her softly. He wants to say the words he's been repeating to himself until they've become his heartbeat: _I love her, I love her_.

He pulls back, pushing a damp curl behind her ear, smiling. "I like the way your hair curls when it's wet."

She grins. "I like _you_."

His chuckle fades with her smile. She tilts her head, looking for something in his face. He hopes she finds what she's searching for.

And when she speaks, he thinks maybe she has. "I more than like you, Edward. I love you."

He kisses her hard, tangling his fingers in her hair, tasting her kiss and the water on her skin and the sweetness of those words.

She's breathless when he pulls back. She looks up at him, waiting. She knows.

"I love you, too," he says.

She jumps at him, catching him off guard. He stumbles as her legs wrap around his waist, but he's too off-kilter. He holds her tight, and it feels like he's falling in slow motion, like falling in love with her all over again.

He breaks her fall, landing on his arse and then collapsing completely, Bella on his chest. The wind gets knocked out of his lungs and his face twists in pain, his eyes squeezed tight. He lies there on his back in the red-brown dirt.

"I'm so sorry." Bella's voice is small.

Edward opens his eyes and sees the embarrassment flushing her cheeks and pulling tears to the corners of her eyes. "I'm not," he says. His hand behind her neck, he pulls her mouth to his.

She doesn't fight him, kissing him until the shame bubbling in her belly turns to steam and dissipates, forgotten completely.

Edward pulls away, his face turned to the sky as he breathes hard. He pushes a hand across his face, then squints at his palm. "Ah, shit."

"What?"

He looks up at her with a smirk. He wriggles his fingers, which are coated with rust-coloured dust.

She giggles. "It's all over your face."

"And probably your bum, too."

Bella wriggles on him, trying to look at the seat of her black work pants. Edward groans. "Bel–"

She whips her head back towards him and it's her turn to smirk. "Problem?" She wriggles again. Edward grips her hips, holding her still.

"You guys are so fuckin' unprofessional." Jasper snickers as they look up at him, eyes wide. Hand on his hips, his volleys are coated with the red dirt, too. "Bella, you've got Mase's handprint on your arse."

"Yep." Bella raises her eyebrows. "What of it?"

Jasper lifts his hands, palms out. "Nothing, mate. Just sayin', you know, in case you want to get changed before you get back to work."

He grins down at the two of them. Though the brim of his hat shades Jasper's face, Edward can see the mischief in his eyes.

He extends a hand to Bella. She pushes up on Edward's chest and starts to reach for Jasper. Edward wraps an arm around her waist, keeping her trapped against him.

"Fuck off, Jas."

"What? What? I'm just being a gentleman, helping the lady– oh, you got a little problem goin' on, Mase?" He cackles madly, cupping a hand around his ear. There is a car crawling up the drive. "And some customers on the way, too. What're you gunna do?"

"How about," Bella pipes up, "you cover the Cellar Door while I go get changed, and I _won't_ tell Angie's little sister about the mad crush you have on her?"

Jasper looks at her, his lips pressed together. His expression wavers between panic and admiration. Bella props herself up, her elbows on Edward's chest as he shakes with silent laughter.

Jasper nods, pulling his hat off and pushing his hands through his hair. "Well played." Turning on his heel, he moves towards the Cellar Door, muttering to himself.

Bella grins down at Edward.

"You wouldn't really …"

She giggles. "Of course not. Come on." She pushes herself to her feet, her hands going immediately to her backside, brushing at the dirt and dust. "I reckon," she says, lowering her voice and smirking at Edward as he clambers to his feet, "we've probably got time to take care of that problem of yours while we change."

* * *

Just as the last of the whites come off the vine, thick, black clouds gather overhead, and the rain begins. It falls steadily; big, fat, heavy drops drumming on the roofs, and making the vines sway under their clumsy pounding. Disease pressure is high, the downpour combined with the summer heat makes for unbearable humidity—the kind of conditions that molds and mildews thrive in.

Bella sees the concern that lines Edward and Carlisle and Garrett's faces as they scour the weather reports for any hope that the rain will ease and the humidity let up enough for them to salvage their Shiraz and Cabernet Sauvignon crops. Other winemakers drop by often, and Carlisle and Edward, too, seem to be spending a lot of time off-site, walking through the neighbouring vineyards.

Jasper shrugs when Bella asks him what it will mean for them if the rain doesn't let up soon. "We'll be fine," he says, setting his rain-splattered hat onto the bar. Though the morning saw dozens of tasters streaming through the doors, it's been quiet since lunchtime. "Some of the other guys, though." He shakes his head. "A few of them are only just holding onto their places as it is. Without their reds—some of them might have to sell up to the big corps."

"Shit." Bella has always liked the rain, but here, the dark grey clouds seem threatening, and the incessant patter of the rain against the windows sounds to her like impatient fingers tapping away, waiting out the hours until it's planned destruction comes to fruition. "Do you – is it possible they'll be able to salvage them yet?"

Jasper pushes the corkscrew curls out of his eyes. "It's possible, yeah. If the rain clears up soon and we get an extended dry period. Assuming the fruit hasn't been damaged but."

* * *

Around mid-February, even with the stress he's shouldering, and the long hours he's working, Edward notices a change in Bella. She's quiet, but not in a peaceful way. She's having difficulty sleeping, and she spends a lot of time in front of the television. Edward often wakes to start work to find her staring blankly at the set, her face reflecting the flickering blue light in the darkened living room.

She brushes off his concerns with somewhat wistful smiles, or by distracting him—usually by removing her clothes. He wrestles with himself over how easily he lets her change the subject. On one hand, he knows she's avoiding something. On the other, he hopes they're at a point in their relationship where she'd tell him if there was something seriously wrong.

He considers the fact she may be homesick. It's getting close to six months since she landed in Australia—maybe she misses her friends and family back home. He doesn't think that's it. She talks to her father and stepmother, and coos over the photographs of her half-brother, but she rarely mentions anyone else from her life in the U.S.

It's Esme who hands him the missing piece to his puzzle.

She seeks him out in the lab, where he's checking on the progress of the Semillon he's fermenting on skins. "Edward?"

"Mmm." He's only half-paying attention to her as he monitors the ebulliometer on the bench.

"I've spoken to Carlisle, and I need you to take tomorrow off. Maybe the day after as well."

"Mmm—what?" Edward looks up, frowning. "Why? Es, I dunno, I've taken too many days lately – I've got a lot of work on my plate at the moment." He glances at the thermometer again and jots down a reading.

Esme sighs, combing the strawberry blonde hair off her face with her fingertips. "Tomorrow will be hard … for Bella."

Concern over the alcohol measurements he's taking slips straight from Edward's mind. "Is it – _shit._ Her mum."

Esme nods. "Yeah. Tomorrow will be the anniversary of her death."

"Okay. Of course. Yes." Edward rubs his forehead with his wrist, his eyes closing. "Carlisle's okay with it?"

"He and Jasper will manage just fine. He said to note anything that will require urgent attention on the whiteboard and he'll take care of it."

"Okay." Edward nods again. "Okay." He blows out a deep breath. "What do I – I mean … Are you sure it wouldn't be – you knew her mum, maybe she'll want you."

Esme squeezes his shoulder. "It'll be okay, Edward. Just – be with her, okay? She'll let you know what she needs."

* * *

In the morning, Edward wakes in an empty bed, again. He expected as much, and though he had willed himself to wake early, he opens his eyes knowing he's failed. Dawn lights on streams of invisible dust motes, and he inhales deeply, like he hopes to fill his lungs with this moment of quiet and still beauty and breathe it back to Bella when she needs it.

He finds her at the breakfast table, pushing her Weet-bix around her bowl. The brown sugar has dissolved and the cereal has turned to mush.

"Bella?"

She looks at him, unspeaking, as he squats down beside her. He can see the red rimming her eyes as she fights her tears. Edward takes her hand, enveloping it with both of his. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I'm so sorry."

She kind of falls out of her chair, sliding into his arms, unbalancing him. He catches himself, fingertips splayed on the timber floor, before he can topple over, and folds her into his lap. She buries her face against his bare chest. He feels her tears, sliding warm and wet between their skin as he rubs circles on her back.

He presses his cheek to the top of his head, his eyes stinging, too. He remembers the solace he found in Bella's quiet presence when Kate passed. His chest is tight with worry—he hopes he's giving Bella what she needs. He doesn't know what else to offer her.

"I'm here," he whispers. He hopes that's enough.

On the kitchen floor, they huddle together, sometimes crying, sometimes silent. They make no attempt to suppress their grief. Instead, they share it.

* * *

Edward isn't sure how long they've been sitting, tangled together, when he feels Bella start to squirm in his lap. He pulls back, one hand on the side of her neck, the other tucking her hair behind her ear.

"I need to pee," she says, her voice a rasp.

She stands up, and waits for Edward to get to his feet. His hands on her waist, he dips his head to meet her eyes. He doesn't ask, but she nods. "I'll be okay."

He kisses her forehead and steps back.

Bella leaves the kitchen slowly, feeling like she's walking through a strange fog. She can see clearly, though her eyes sting, but her mind feels fuzzy around the edges. Her movements are automatic, like her body is moving without her input.

Whilst Bella uses the bathroom, Edward ducks out the front door and looks at the sky. Despite the clear dawn, the clouds have slid back across the sky, thick and grey, but the rain seems to have paused for the moment. He moves back inside, gathers a few things and packs them into the ute.

He walks back into the kitchen to find Bella sipping a glass of water, her eyes unfocused. He touches her shoulder. "Come on."

She doesn't hesitate. She sets down her glass and seeks out his hand. He leads her outside, opening the door of his ute for her to climb into the passenger seat.

The drive is quiet; scored by the engine's low rumble, the sound of rubber on dirt, and the occasional sniffle from both passenger and driver.

When Edward cuts the engine, he looks across at Bella. She squeezes his thigh, whispering a hoarse "thank you." Her face still puffy, sadness' residue drying on her cheeks, she grabs the tartan rug from behind the seat and climbs out of the ute. Edward watches as she ducks under the barbed wire fence and spreads the blanket over the same spot they sat so many months ago.

He follows, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses, a large golf umbrella tucked under his arm.

Bella looks at the label curiously as Edward removes the muselet. "Champagne?"

He nods. "Blanc de noir."

She smiles at him then, and his heart expands. It feels swollen, like it barely has enough room to pound out its rhythm between his lungs.

He hands Bella a glass and lifts his own. "This is an excellent wine," he tells her. His eyes look grey, reflecting the stormy skies. "And sometimes, Hemingway isn't quite right."

Bella holds his gaze, waiting as he fumbles with the words that feel like they're trying to claw their way out of his throat. "Life – death. Bel, it sucks, and I'm sorry. I wish I could've met your mum. I wish she could've seen you today. How beautiful and strong you are, how much you loved her." _How much I love you._

She lifts her glass to his. Her voice is still scratchy. "To life, and love, and m-making the most of the time–" she swallows down a sob "–you have … w-with the people who matter."

The chime of glass on glass shimmers in the air.

* * *

Later in the afternoon, whilst the cloud cover is thick, Edward can almost feel the sun's movement behind it. It's warm and humid, the glare making them both squint and shade their eyes.

"Bel?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you tell me about your mum? I mean, if you want to …" Bella's brow creases and he looks away, scratching at his forearm. _Idiot._ "I– sorry. I'm sorry. I understand if you'd rather not – if it's too hard to talk–"

She stops him, her fingertip against his mouth. "It's okay. I just – I mean …" She trails off, looking around. She sighs. "I didn't know her especially well, you know? Like, who she was. I have lots of really vivid memories of the things we did together when I was a little girl, when she came to visit."

Her smile is sad. "I think – well, she _was_ very spontaneous." She closes her eyes as she talks. "I remember she'd just turn up out of the blue. I'd come home from school and she'd be sitting on the doorstep, or the door would knock just when I was brushing my teeth, and she'd be there with candy and other little trinkets that she'd collected wherever she'd been recently."

She sighs. "Looking back, now, it must've driven Dad absolutely crazy, but he never let me know that. He just let me be excited that she'd come to visit. Sometimes he'd put his foot down—I had to go to school even when she was in town—but mostly he'd just kind of shake his head and smile and tell me to remember to clean my teeth if I ate a lot of candy."

"Sometimes she'd take me places, sometimes we'd just hang out and watch movies and play board games. I do remember her taking me to the circus when I was about eight, and I absolutely flipped out because clowns scare the shit out of me. She slept in my bed that night."

She opens her eyes and stands up, stretching. Edward blinks, watching her move across the grass, picking all the little yellow flowers she can find. He stretches to his left and grabs a few more, squinting against the glare as he holds them out to her.

She smiles, shaking her head. "I need their stalks, too."

"Oh." Edward chuckles. "Sorry."

Bella folds herself back onto the rug, and he pushes himself to his feet, gathering more of the flowers she's been collecting—not pulling them off the stalk too close to the head.

He drops a few dozen into her lap, and she smiles up at him. "I think that's plenty. Thank you."

Edward watches as her fingers move deftly, twisting and twining the stems together, like she's braiding the flowers together.

"My mom taught me how to do this," she says, her focus on her lap. "Except with daisies, not whatever these are."

Edward doesn't tell her that they're weeds—in her hands, now crowning her hair, they're beautiful.

She looks at the remaining flowers in her lap and shrugs. She picks them up and starts making another crown. When she's done, she lifts it towards him. Edward chuckles but lets her place it on his head. He lifts his eyebrows and she laughs, the sound makes his heart lift a little higher in his chest.

* * *

It's dark by the time they head home. Even with his mind so focused on Bella, Edward registers that the rain has held off all afternoon and into the evening.

Angus and Julia are crooning softly from the stereo as he drives them back towards the cottage, and it catches him by surprise when Bella's hand lands on his knee. Her fingernails rake slowly up his thigh, raising goose bumps. He swallows a groan.

"I love you," she says.

He covers her hand with his own, squeezing gently. "I love you, too."

She sighs. "Is it – is it bad that I really want you? Now?"

He swallows hard. "No."

"It's – I want to be close to you, like that." She hesitates. "I–I need it."

His eyes leave the road for just a second. Bella's face is mostly shadowed, but light glints in her dark eyes. He nods. "I understand."

He can feel the tension build in the darkened cab, like static electricity. The ten minutes it takes to wind back down the mountain seem to stretch into an eternity.

As soon as he kills the engine in front of Bella's cottage, they're out of the car, colliding, hands grabbing at each other, mouths fusing together. They stumble and trip up the path and onto the porch, swallowing each other's grunts and moans.

Edward pushes Bella against her front door, his kiss hard, his hands everywhere: sliding across her belly, kneading her breasts, slipping into her underwear. Bella moans her approval as his fingers encounter slippery-wet flesh, her fisted hands pulling at his hair until it stings.

He moves his lips across her jaw, sucking hard at her neck, pulling a bloom of blood to the surface. His fingers pump and curl, his thumb making tight circles, and Bella is panting and moaning—and shouting.

"Fuck! Jacob, fuck. What the fuck?" She closes her hand around Edward's wrist, stilling his movements. His mind takes a few beats to catch up—_Jacob_?!

He pulls his mouth from her neck, eyes wide. Bella's head is against her front door, turned to her right. Her chest still heaving, one leg still hitched around Edward's hip, her eyes narrow into a scowl.

He follows her gaze. "What the fuck?" he mutters, as a tall, dark-skinned guy unfolds himself from the carved timber bench seat on Bella's porch.

Edward steps forward, trying to shield Bella's body with his own, pulling his hand from inside her knickers. She lets go of his wrist with a sigh. Every muscle in Edward's body is tensed, fight or flight instincts swinging wildly towards fight.

"Where are you staying, Jake?" Her voice is like a slap. Edward gets the feeling her displeasure goes beyond the fact this guy came very close to witnessing her climaxing on her front porch.

Jacob scratches his ear, his dark gaze wandering across their pressed-together bodies. His nostrils flare. "Uh, in a little bed–" he swallows hard "–and breakfast down the road."

Bella's nod is curt, a dismissal. "Then go check in. I'll call you in the morning."

She smoothes down her dress, still scowling over Edward's shoulder. "Seriously. Go. I'm busy. I don't know why you're here, but common courtesy dictates that people usually call before they show up on someone's doorstep unannounced."

"Izzy–"

Bella knows she's acting like a child, but she's pissed off, embarrassed, and still somehow aroused—and after today, it's just all too much for her to deal with. She claps her hands over her ears. "Go away, Jacob. I'm busy."

"So I saw," Jake mutters. The hostility in his voice sparks in his eyes as he sizes up Edward.

Edward is pissed off and still turned on, and rattled by this clown's sudden intrusion into the little Bella-bubble he's been living in. Turning away from the guy with the worst timing in the history of bad timing, he looks at Bella and tugs her hands away from her ears. "Are you okay?"

She nods, tipping her face up for a kiss. He licks his lips, hesitating. He's unsettled. He wants more than the soft kiss she's asking for—he needs more than that, and he thinks she might, too. "If I kiss you, I'm not going to be able to stop," he whispers.

"Fuck." The word is carried on her gasp. Without looking away from Edward, she fumbles for the doorknob. "Jake, we're going inside. I'll call you in the morning."

She swings open the door and grabs Edward by the shirt. Smirking, he doesn't bother to look back at Jacob.

The door bangs closed and they fumble in the darkness, shedding their clothes as they stumble the familiar route, down the hallway towards the bedroom.

Edward can feel her desperation in the way Bella moves over him. It's there in the way she grabs his hands and covers her breasts with them, in her hard, frantic kisses, and the sting of her fingernails on his chest as she rocks against him, racing them towards their climaxes.

It's there in the way his name falls from her lips over and over as she shatters.

Edward grits his teeth and grapples with his control as she dissolves above him. When he feels her muscles relax and her body slump, he rolls them carefully, holding his weight off her.

She wraps her arms around him, pulling him down. He surrenders, dropping his weight onto her, pressing her into the mattress as he moves inside her, deep and slow.

Her fingernails scrabble at his back. "Edward."

"Hey, hey, it's okay," he croons. "It's okay." He dips his head and kisses her softly.

He continues at the same pace, until he feels the tension in her body morph from stress-taut to the stiffening that he knows signals her impending release.

She moans and he grunts, and then they fall together into bliss.

Their limbs still tangled, their bodies damp with sweat and sex, neither Bella nor Edward make any effort to pull away as their breathing returns to normal and their heartbeats slow.

Bella addresses Edward's chest. "I don't know why he's here."

"I figured." He chuckles, stroking her hair. He presses a kiss to her temple.

Bella says nothing, squirming a little, like she can't get close enough. Edward sighs. "It's okay," he murmurs. He feels around for the lamp switch, cringing as warm light paints the room.

She closes her eyes against the burst of brightness. "He …" She shakes her head. "I don't – I mean, I love you. You know that, right?"

Edward smiles down at her, his forearms framing her face. "Yeah, I do. It's always nice to hear you say it, though." He kisses her mouth, once, twice, three times. "I love you, too."

She smiles up at him, her dark eyes shining. "It is nice to hear, huh?"

"Very." He rolls off her and climbs out of bed, holding a hand out to her. "Shower?"

She grips his fingers. "Shower. Then sleep."

* * *

**A/N: My love to any readers in Oklahoma. Be safe.**

**Thank you so much for all your beautiful reviews – I read and treasure every single one. I am convinced I have the loveliest readers ever! **

**I also have the most wonderful beta, cheerleader, and friend, ever, in BelieveItOrNot. Thank you, old Phoebe.**

**Love, Shell x**

* * *

**Also, I had a piece of erotica published in **_**Pique**_**! If you want to read it, it's called **_**Stumbling is Not Falling**_** and it's available on piquezine dot com**


	13. Chapter 13

_Chapter 13_.

* * *

Today, Edward wakes long before dawn, the clock beside Bella's bed announcing it's barely four o'clock. He reaches for Bella, but once more finds only empty, if still warm, sheets. He sighs, waiting for a few moments, until soft noises from the kitchen filter into his sleepy brain. He can hear Bella talking, then the lag before a male voice responds—she must be Skyping her father.

Climbing out of bed, he pulls on the shorts he dropped beside the bed last night and looks around for his singlet. He leaves the bedroom and finds the crumpled pile of faded blue cotton in the middle of the hallway. He smirks a little as he shrugs it back on.

In the kitchen, he steps to the side, making sure he enters Bella's line of sight and not her father's. She smiles at him, and he returns it. Her dark hair is a sleep-mashed mess of waves and curls, and she's wearing an old _frogstomp_ shirt he hadn't realised she'd pinched from his place. He points at the kettle and she nods.

Her laptop starts to speak as he fills the kettle. "I'm really sorry, Iz. I didn't – I mean, had I realised … I would've told him not to. I know you've got Edward, and Jake should know that–"

Bella flushes and cuts her father off. "It's okay, Dad." She sighs, looking at Edward over the top of her laptop.

He tips his head in question.

Bella scrapes her teeth over her bottom lip and lifts her eyebrows. Edward points at the computer and she nods. He grins, and abandons his tea making, moving to sit beside her. He sees himself appear in the little square at the bottom of the screen, but most of his attention is on the man with the bushy moustache and Bella's eyes who fills the picture.

"Ah." Charlie Swan's moustache twitches. "Edward, I presume."

"Yes, sir. It's nice to, ah, meet you."

"Charlie'll do just fine, Edward."

"Yes, sir, uh, Charlie."

Bella snickers, her elbow finding Edward's side. He grabs her hand under the table and links their fingers together.

Charlie frowns suddenly, which makes Edward press his lips together to hide his smile—the older man, creased forehead and narrowed eyes, bears a striking resemblance to his daughter. She makes the same expression when she's put out about something, and Edward likes seeing its origin, where that small part of her character comes from. "Isn't it, like four in the morning there?"

Bella glances at the corner of the screen. "Yeah, about a quarter past."

"Why are you kids – no, never mind. I don't wanna know."

"Dad!" Bella wrinkles her nose. "I couldn't sleep because I came home last night and found Jacob sitting on my porch. And Edward's up either because he heard me shouting at you, or because he's used to being up at three to start work."

"The latter," Edward says. He squeezes Bella's hand.

Charlie sighs. "I'm sorry, Iz. Like I said, I had no idea–"

"It's fine, Dad. I'll figure it out later."

She pushes her hands through her hair. "How are Sue and Seth? They doing okay?"

"Yeah, they're all right. Well, Sue's got uh, mastitis. So she's not feeling too great."

Bella grimaces and folds her free arm over her chest.

"And she's also had the flu, so she's really tired. I've taken a few days off to look after Seth so she can catch up on her rest."

"She'll be okay, right?"

"Yeah, she'll be fine." Charlie nods.

"And Seth?"

"He's great. Getting big. Sleeping well. He's a pretty easy baby – not like you. I swear you didn't stop screaming for the first six months."

Bella rolls her eyes. "Sorry about that."

Charlie laughs. "It's okay, you made up for it later. I'm figuring he's gonna be a hideous teenager."

"Aw, you never know." Bella unsuccessfully tries to stifle a yawn.

"You two should go back to bed." He cringes. "Or don't. Edward sleeps on the couch, right?"

Bella laughs. "Yes, Dad. Edward sleeps on the couch, and you found Seth in the cabbage patch."

"Good." Charlie chuckles, but then pauses, apparently listening intently. "Speaking of, I think he's awake. I don't want him to wake Sue, so I'm gonna go now. Nice to meet you, Edward. I'm sure I'll see more of you soon."

"Good to meet you, too, sir– Charlie."

"Sir Charlie. I like that." He nods. "Later, kids."

The call disconnects with a strange electronic pop.

Bella sighs, dropping her head to Edward's shoulder. She looks at their joined hands. "What the fuck am I going to do with him? What if he's here for a whole bloody week or something? It's a long trip, I can't imagine he only booked for a few days."

Edward laughs. "You talk like me now." He kisses her temple. "It'll be fine, Bel. Take him to a few wineries, hit the gardens, maybe head out to the coast. You could even ask Esme for a few days off and take him back to Sydney and do all that touristy business."

Bella purses her lips and he can't help kissing them.

"Seriously, it's just a week."

She sighs. "Yeah, I know. I'm going to go back to bed for a little while. You coming?"

"Mmm. If I come back to bed, you're not going back to sleep."

Bella smirks. "I was counting on that."

* * *

Jacob comes into the Cellar Door around lunchtime. Bella decides this is a wiser move on his part than turning up at the cottage in the early morning—which is what she half-expected him to do. One look at him, though, and the dark circles under his eyes make her suspect that she owes her thanks to jetlag rather than his consideration.

"Good afternoon, Jacob." Esme smiles, but Bella can hear the reservation in her tone.

She touches the older woman's elbow. "You guys have met?"

Esme nods. "We met yesterday. He came by looking for you."

"Ah." Bella sighs. "Is it all right if I go for lunch now?"

"Of course, honey. I didn't expect you today, anyway."

Bella shrugs. "I'm okay, but thank you." She embraces Esme briefly, then unties the apron from her waist and folds it neatly, tucking it under the counter. "I'll be back in an hour."

She turns to Jacob, indicating with a wave of her hand that he should follow her through the back door. Outside, she hesitates, looking towards the lab with her lip between her teeth.

"Izzy–"

"Hey, Bella." Jasper jogs past with a smirk on his face. "You want me to tell Mase you're off?"

She nods, lifting her voice as the distance between them increases. "Yeah, thanks, Jas. Only if he's not busy, though."

Jasper waves a hand to show he's understood, but keeps going. It's raining. Though it held off yesterday, today it's returned, a fine curtain of water sweeping across the vineyard. Bella steps back under the eaves, pushing the rain-induced curls off her face.

Jacob follows her example. "I'd rather speak to you alone," he says, reaching for Bella's hand.

She shrugs, lifting her hands to her hair and pulling the tie from it. She redoes her ponytail. "There's nothing you need to say that I don't want him to hear." She raises an eyebrow at Jacob.

His lips press tight—apparently she's frustrating him. Bella's neck prickles with irritation. _Why does he have such bad timing?_ She thinks maybe that's a perfect summation of their relationship. Ill-timed proposals, middle of the night phone calls, unplanned visits—they've just never been in sync.

As this realisation settles into her bones, Bella feels somehow lighter, too. It's not that Jake's a bad guy—maybe the timing has always been off for a reason. Guilt starts to come unstuck—it feels like a weight lifted, a burden set aside. She smiles at Jacob. "A bit of notice would have been nice, but it is good to see you, Jake."

Heavy footsteps on the concrete make her turn before she can hear his response. "Hey."

Edward grins. "Hey, yourself."

Bella waves a hand between the two men. "Jacob, Edward. Edward, Jacob."

Edward's smile doesn't fade as he nods and extends a hand. "Good to meet ya, man."

The two men shake hands and Bella is relieved when she doesn't see tendons straining in either of their wrists—neither of them tries to squeeze the other's fingers off.

"Listen, if you guys want time to talk …" Edward aims a thumb over his shoulder.

Bella shakes her head, reaching for his hand and linking their fingers. "Stay."

He's not going to argue with her. "How was your morning?"

"Busy." Bella kisses under his jaw, smiling against his skin as she feels him shiver. She pulls away but doesn't untangle their hands. Jacob seems to be trying to keep his expression neutral as he watches her. He doesn't quite succeed.

"So …"

Bella sighs. _So … what? _She feels like all the distance between the Hunter Valley and Colorado is compressed into the few feet between herself and Jacob. She feels like she doesn't know him anymore—or perhaps, more correctly, he doesn't know her anymore.

"I wanted to be here for you, with the anniversary …" He shoves his hands in his pockets, looking, despite his bulky frame, like a nervous twelve-year-old.

Edward sees the softening in Bella's expression, the tension around her mouth and eyes easing a little. "I know," she says. "But last night – Jake, you should've called first."

"I wanted–"

"_You_ wanted? Right. So, you thought, 'Oh, even though I know Bella really hates being put on the spot, I'll just show up on her doorstep and scare the shit out of her.'"

Edward looks at his shoes, his teeth digging into his bottom lip to his laugh from escaping.

Jacob frowns, his eyes darting from Bella to Edward and down to their joined hands. "I thought – I mean, with yesterday being what it was, I figured you'd be uh, _taking it easy_." He lifts his eyebrows.

Bella's fingers grip Edward's tighter and he suppresses a sigh. _This guy can't be for real._

"Really? So you think what – that I was somehow dishonouring Mom's memory, do you?"

Edward thinks it's pretty obvious from the forced calm in Bella's tone that Jake should probably just stop talking, but instead, the guy clears his throat. "I mean, it didn't exactly look like you were grieving."

Edward squeezes Bella's hand, but she shakes him off. She walks off the path, then circles back around, her eyes flashing with anger as she folds her arms over her chest. "What the fuck do you know about my grief?"

"I was there, Izzy. I was the one who –"

Edward takes pity on him, cutting him off before he can speak words that he instinctively knows will be like pouring petroleum over the spark of Bella's irritation. "Jake–"

Jacob slices his hand through the air in frustration. "You–" he stabs a finger in Edward's direction "–weren't there. You don't know her like I do."

Edward sighs and takes a step back, raising his hands in a gesture that should tell Jacob he's on his own now.

"_You_ don't know me like _he_ does." Bella's voice is tight, controlled, but Edward can hear the volatile undercurrent. "I've changed, being here."

Jacob mutters something and Edward stiffens, but it seems Bella doesn't hear his quiet "Obviously."

Jake sighs and shakes his head. His eyes narrow. "I've known you since I was five years old, Izzy. You can't have changed enough in six months to make that irrelevant. And the girl I know, she wouldn't have–"

"Mate," Edward says, warning lacing his tone. "Just – leave it, hey." He forces his fingers out straight; he won't let his fists bunch.

"Fuck off. You don't know shit about–"

"Jake, shut _up_." Bella's fingers find her temples, pushing hard. "Look. Your timing sucks. And I won't apologise for last night. I won't." She drops her hands, shaking her head. "I don't owe you an explanation. I love Edward, and he makes me happy, and that's all you need to know."

Edward sees the precise moment her words sink through Jacob's stubborn skull—he starts shaking his head, not wildly, just little shakes, like he's trying to stop the words from sticking to his brain.

"Bel–"

Bella looks up at Edward, concern drawing her brows together. He closes the distance between them and drops his lips to her ear, keeping his voice low. "Listen, maybe you need to have a chat with him alone. I'm not his favourite person right now and–"

"But–"

"It's okay, love. Go; talk with him. Clear the air, yeah? I'll catch you after you finish up this arvo."

Bella sighs. Edward's blue eyes are filled with concern, but she knows it's all directed at her. He wraps his arms around her waist and presses his lips against her temple.

"Okay," she mutters. "I've only got forty-five minutes before I need to get back to work, anyway." Bella knows Esme would wave her off with a smile if she asked for the afternoon off, but having to go back to work seems like a good excuse to keep the conversation she knows she needs to have with Jacob concise.

Edward tucks his fingers under her chin and tips her face to his. He kisses her softly. It's brief, and restrained for the sake of their audience, but it's sweet and makes her knees feel a little wobbly. "I'll meet you back here after you finish up, hey?"

"Yeah." She lifts up on her toes to steal another kiss. She feels Edward smile against her lips.

Edward pulls back and turns to Jacob. "I'll leave you two to it." He nods. "Nice to meet you, Jacob."

"You, too." Jacob's tone makes his words a lie.

Edward pulls open the back door, and steps back into the Cellar Door—Bella suspects he's seeking out Esme. She sighs and looks at Jacob. "Come on, we'll walk and talk."

"It's raining."

Bella rolls her eyes. "And? You want me to get you an umbrella?"

Jacob hesitates. "Can we go back to your place? I rented a car."

Bella pushes her face into her hands, her forefingers pressing hard as they trace along the line of her eyebrows. "Fine. I've gotta be back here at one-thirty but."

Jacob wrinkles his nose. "You're starting to talk like them."

Bella smiles. "I know."

* * *

Sitting on her couch, Bella twists so her back is against the armrest and she's facing Jacob. She pulls a cushion into her lap. "So. You're here."

He nods. "I got here about this time yesterday. Like I said, I thought you'd need a friend."

"I appreciate the thought," Bella says. And she does—it's a big gesture, flying halfway around the world to see her on the anniversary of her mother's death.

"You weren't here."

"Edward took me to this …" she trails off. She doesn't want to share that with Jacob. She wants to keep it special, between the two of them. "He gave me what I needed, Jacob."

Jacob looks for a moment like he's swallowed one of Edward's unripe Tyrian grapes. Perhaps he realises that criticising Edward won't get him anywhere, because he makes no comment. Instead he looks around the living room of the little cottage. "Nice place."

"I love it." She smiles. "Esme and Carlisle have been so generous to me."

"They're Edward's parents?"

"No. The younger guy, Jasper—the blond kid. He's their son."

Jacob nods. "So, what do you do around here? You sell wine, back there." He gestures vaguely. "But what about when you're not working?"

Bella shrugs. "The same things I'd do anywhere. Hang out with the girls, hang out with Edward. Go for walks. Barbeques, swimming, I don't know. We keep pretty busy with friends and stuff."

"Edward's friends?"

"I guess. Well–" she fiddles with the zipper on the cushion cover "–they're my friends, too."

She ignores the sceptical expression clouding Jacob's face. With Edward working the hours he has been, she's spent a lot of time hanging out with their friends without him, and she knows that she holds her own with them. She's Bella to them, not Edward's girlfriend.

"Actually, we're hanging out with everyone tomorrow night. You should come." As much as Bella isn't especially keen on this idea, Jacob is her oldest friend, and she can't leave him sitting in the bed and breakfast by himself.

He nods, unenthused.

"How long are you here for, by the way?"

"A week."

"Okay. So you fly back out on Monday? Or Sunday?"

"Yeah. Sunday afternoon."

Bella nods. "Right. I'll ask Esme and see if I can have Thursday and Friday off. We can go back to Sydney, if you want, see the sights and whatnot."

Jake's eyebrows jump a little. "Your boyfriend gonna be all right with that?"

Bella looks him in the eye. "It was Edward's idea."

Again, Jacob changes tack. "When are you coming home? September?"

Bella purses her lips, considering her answer. There are things she wants to discuss with Edward before she speaks to Jacob about them. She settles for ambiguous. "I'm looking into my options." In truth, she means what she told him over the phone a few months ago—she doesn't plan on going back to Colorado. It might mean tangling herself in miles of red tape, but this is home and she intends to stay here.

Jacob nods, apparently satisfied. "You know, if you want, we can probably get you a flight home with me."

Bella laughs, closing her eyes so she doesn't roll them at the hopeful tone colouring his voice. "I need to get back to work."

* * *

As Edward climbs the steps to Bella's porch, gold light sliding onto the timber beams makes him turn. The setting sun has broken through the clouds, a fissure of light cracking the thick grey. He grins. "'Bout fucking time." If the rain stays away for the rest of the season, they may well be able to bring in the reds.

He holds his smile in place when he walks inside and sees Jacob sitting on the couch. "G'day." He can hear the shower running, and he tries to shake the images from his mind. Thinking about Bella, naked, the way her hair turns almost black, the scent of her bodywash rising on the steam, is probably not a good idea when he's standing in front of her ex-boyfriend.

Jacob snickers. "I didn't think anyone actually spoke like that. Are you gonna offer to throw some shrimp on the bah-bie, now?"

"We call them prawns." Edward shrugs. The son of a Novocastrian miner, he's spent enough time visiting family in both the city and the country to know his accent is broader than some, but relatively refined compared to others. He's never bought into the cultural cringe, at any rate, and Jacob's mockery means little to him. "I imagine it's the same in the U.S. It's a bloody big country, and you'll notice people speak quite differently depending on where you visit."

Jacob presses his lips together and exhales through his nose. "I don't intend to be here long enough to notice."

Edward chuckles. "All right. D'you want a cuppa?"

"Please."

Edward wanders into the kitchen, somewhat surprised when Jacob gets up to follow him.

Jacob leans against the bench as Edward flicks on the kettle and fishes mugs, spoons and teabags from the appropriate cupboards. "English Breakfast or Earl Grey?"

"What?"

"Tea." Edward holds up the boxes. "Which would you prefer?"

"No coffee?"

Edward frowns. "I don't know actually. I don't really drink the stuff, and Bel usually just uses the espresso machine in the Cellar Door." He opens the pantry. "She might have some instant, though." He slides a few jars around. "Yep. How do you take it?"

"Cream and sugar."

Edward opens the fridge. "She's only got this crazy mud cream* she likes, and I don't think that would work too well, would it?" He opens the glass jar and holds it out to Jacob. It's so thick it almost looks like cream-coloured butter. "Is milk okay?"

Jacob sighs. "That's fine."

Edward hums quietly to himself as he makes two mugs of tea and one of coffee.

"Izzy has sugar in her coffee."

Edward frowns as he balances the tea bag on the spoon and wraps the string around it to squeeze out the excess liquid. "Not in tea, though." The shower is still running, and Edward wishes that the ancient hot water system wasn't quite so enormous.

"She doesn't like tea."

Edward shrugs. "If you say so." He really doesn't want to be drawn into an argument over who knows Bella better.

"Whatever, man." Jacob shakes his head. "You think you know her, but I've known Izzy since she was five years old. And the girl I'm seeing here – this isn't her. This is … this is her play-acting. It's like, like she's come out here and decided to be someone different or something."

Edward shrugs, tossing the teabags into the rubbish bin. "So what? She can be whomever she wants to. That's her choice."

Jacob laughs, it's a bitter sound. "Don't you get it, though? This is just an experiment for her. She's out here in a different country, being someone new. But for how long? Her visa expires in six months, and then she'll be back in Colorado, and she'll put this Bella bullshit away and go back to being Izzy."

Edward ignores the swooping in his stomach as he passes Jacob the mug of coffee. "Has it occurred to you that maybe this isn't an act? That maybe she actually feels free here? That she can be what—who—she really wants to be here, because no one expects anything from her?"

Jacob snickers. "Has it occurred to you that maybe she's just using you?"

"No." Edward folds his hands behind his head, resting his hip against the kitchen bench. "Maybe she's exploring being more confident and outgoing, or less shy, or hell, maybe she's decided to dress differently. I wouldn't know. But whatever—that's her prerogative. I don't for a moment think that means she's a fundamentally different person to the girl I've fallen in love with."

That bitter look flashes across Jacob's face again.

Edward picks up his tea and blows across the surface, watching the steam curl and dissipate. He takes a careful sip and sets it back on the counter. "Sure, you've known her for almost twenty years. I get it, mate. But if that's the case, then you should know even better than I do that who she _really_ is is kind and warm and generous. Loving. She might be experimenting with how she presents herself, but what's deep inside, that's not gunna change."

The silence that falls between them then is too quiet, and Edward realises he can no longer hear the shower running. He turns towards the doorway and his stomach flip-flops at Bella's smile. It's blinding.

Apparently unconcerned by Jacob's presence, she walks straight into his arms. She doesn't say the words but he sees them shining in her eyes as clearly as if she shouted them. _I love you_. She kisses him harder and longer than is strictly polite. _I love you._

Jacob clears his throat and Bella pulls away, her smile cheeky. "Is this for me?" She points at the third mug and Edward nods.

"Thanks, babe." She picks it up and takes a sip, sighing happily. Edward knows she can't have heard Jacob's proclamation that she didn't like tea, but her reaction makes him chuckle anyway.

"So, what are we doing tonight?" She looks between the two men. "I realise this is kind of awkward, but can we be grown ups about it?"

Edward bites down on his bottom lip as her gaze lingers on Jacob. Smirking would definitely not fall under the heading of Grown Up Behaviour. "You wanna go to the brewery for tea?"

Jacob looks at his mug, frowning, but Bella grins. "Sounds perfect."

* * *

**A/N: Mud cream ... well, it's incredibly thick cream that one of the small Australian dairys makes. Thicker than double cream. Like, maybe quadruple cream. It's so thick the surface cracks the way mud in the desert does. It's about 60% fat, and it's disgustingly delicious with sticky-date pudding and toffee sauce. **

**My hugest thanks to everyone who is reading, and to all those of you who have left me such beautiful reviews. They are cherished, I promise you.**

**Thank you to BelieveItOrNot, whose response to this chapter made me giddy. I am so thankful for the time you give up to help me out, bb. You've taught me so very much, as a writer, as a person. I adore you.**

**Love, Shell.**

* * *

Speaking of the ever-lovely BelieveItOrNot, it was her birthday this week, so dragonfly 336, dreaminginnorweigen, IReen H., moirae and I collaborated on a little present for her.

s/9323401/1/But-Mistress-Know-Thyself (it's in my favourites if ffn eats the link.)

**But Mistress, Know Thyself  
**Author: DTCPS  
_"Part of me thinks you like having me standing on the sidelines, my feelings fastened to you as you twirl and bend and hit the ground." Shakespeare reading Edward and elite gymnast Bella have some reckoning to do._


	14. Chapter 14

_Chapter 14._

* * *

The disembodied female voice chivvies passengers leaving Sydney on Qantas Flight QF 0063 to Johannesburg towards their gate as Bella looks at her shoes, trying to figure out how to say goodbye to Jacob.

"So …" In her periphery she sees his hand move towards her, and she steps back, narrowly avoiding colliding with a pair of passport-clutching backpackers. She tosses an apology over her shoulder, but they've already bustled off, their eyes fixed on the boards detailing departure times.

Jacob sighs. "Izzy."

She forces herself to meet his gaze.

"I'm not going to see you for another six months or so—I can't hug you?"

Annoyance and guilt compete inside her, but Bella pushes both away. She opens her arms and Jacob pulls her into his embrace. It feels strange. She steps back quickly, wriggling out of his grip. "Jacob–"

He lifts his hands. "Yeah, yeah. I know. You're not planning on moving home. But Iz, I'll believe that when I see it. I know you're having fun now while it's sunny and warm and stuff, but you belong in Denver. You'll get homesick soon enough."

Bella thinks his smile is supposed to be tender, but it just looks patronising. She presses her lips together. In ten minutes they'll be going their separate ways. If he hasn't heard her—hasn't listened to her—by now, then he's not going to at all.

He puts a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Listen. I–I'll be waiting for you, okay? I can – I mean, I get it. And I can overlook this."

If Bella bites her tongue any harder, she'll draw blood.

"I mean, _I_ haven't been with anyone else–"

"That's enough." Bella lifts a hand. She shakes her head, irritation prickling across her scalp and down her spine. "Listen to me, Jacob. I am not coming back to Denver. And we are not going to be together."

He sighs and gives her that patient smile again. "We will. You'll see."

In her mind, Bella is shouting at him. She wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until the idea falls out of his head. Instead, she shrugs. "Well, whatever." She glances up at the board flashing with arrival and departure times. "I need to go."

He whinges and complains, and tries to persuade her to stay a while longer, but she's insistent. "Travel safe, okay?"

Pressing a goodbye kiss to his cheek, Bella throws her backpack over her shoulder and heads to the station.

She changes trains at Central Station, settling into her seat and popping her headphones into her ears. She closes her eyes against the evening bustle—elderly couples shuffling along the platform, groups of teenagers giggling and shouting, and the suitcase-dragging families who left the airport with her. There are people all around her, squeezed into the seats and filling up the aisles, but there's only one face flickering in her imagination, only one thought circling the tracks of her mind._ I can't wait to get home._

* * *

Bella wakes slowly the next morning, her legs tangled in her sheets. She slides her hand across the mattress, eyes closed.

No Edward.

She can feel the sun warm her skin as it filters through the glass, but it's not the warmth she wants.

The skies have been clear and blue, the days warm and dry for the last week, and Edward and Carlisle—and the rest of the winemakers in the region—have been wearing relieved smiles as they monitor their Shiraz and Cabernet vines. If the weather holds, their season will be salvaged. Their flagship wines will be made and bottled, and the struggling vignerons might survive another year.

Bella knows this, but she can't help pout as she rubs her eyes open. She watches the light play on her bare skin and wishes it was Edward's hands moving across her body; she feels the sun's warmth, but she wishes it was the heat of Edward's body covering hers.

She sighs and rolls over, fumbling for her phone. It's almost eight o'clock.

Bringing her phone to her ear, she cringes against the too-loud _brrrrt-brrrrt_. Her smile is immediate, though, when Edward answers.

"Hey, you."

"Morning." Bella stifles a yawn and Edward chuckles. "Why aren't you in my bed?"

"I wish I was, gorgeous. What time did you get in last night?"

Bella pulls the sheets over her body. She toys with the edge, her fingertips rubbing circles over the soft cotton. "Um, maybe a little before midnight? I got into Maitland about a quarter past eleven." She sighs. "Esme's right, public transport sucks."

"I did offer–"

"Don't be silly," she tells him. "You were up at what – four this morning? You needed to sleep. Esme said she's gonna take this afternoon off and have a nap—she didn't mind at all."

It's Edward's turn to sigh. "I know. I still don't like the idea of you on the train at night by yourself, or sitting at Hamilton waiting for a connection …" _Let it go_, he tells himself. "And, I just missed you. How was it, by the way?"

Bella shrugs, watching the sunlight edge its way across the ceiling. "Uh, it was all right, I guess."

"D'ja go to the aquarium?"

"Yeah." Bella yawns again, her eyes watering a little. "And uh, Wildlife World and the Maritime Museum. I wanted to go to the Museum of Contemporary Art, too, but Jake wasn't keen on that."

"Right." Edward makes a mental note of this for when vintage has wrapped up and he can take a little time off. "And it was all right – I mean, Jacob was okay?"

She sighs. "Yeah, he behaved for the most part."

Edward pauses, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know. He couldn't help–" Bella pulls her fingers through her tangled hair "–but make a few snide remarks about me coming home. Whatever. He'll get over it."

_It might take a while_, Edward thinks. He doesn't say it, but he's glad to see the back of Jacob. Instead, he listens patiently as Bella sighs and explains that she thinks Jacob planned his whole life to go a certain way and is having difficulties adjusting to her non-cooperation.

"He kept saying 'This is what we planned,' but I didn't plan it, you know? He assumed. He had this idea in his head that I'd finish my degree and then we'd get married and I'd stay home with the babies … and he never asked if that's what I wanted, too." She sighs. "I lost my temper a few times. But he was saying this, and I asked—just being a smartass, you know—how many kids he'd planned on having… and he didn't even blink before he answered. He's like, 'three—two boys and a girl,' and I'm – I mean, what the hell?"

Edward murmurs his understanding. He wonders if he should feel more irritated by this, if listening to Bella talk about her troubles with ex should bother him, but then he reminds himself that Jacob is, right now, sitting on an aeroplane bound for Denver, whilst Bella is lying in bed, probably naked, only a short walk from him.

"Anyway." Bella realises Edward probably doesn't enjoy hearing about Jacob and her relationship, regardless of how many nails she's hammered into that coffin. "He's in denial, but eventually he'll realise I meant what I said. My life is here now."

Those words pull the smile back to Edward's mouth. "Are you sure you don't want me to head up there? I'm just finishing up some more pH testing and then it's smoko."

Bella grins into her pillow. "Well, I need to be at work by ten-thirty."

"Plenty of time. Give me twenty, okay?"

"Okay."

"And Bella …"

"Mmm."

"You better be naked."

* * *

By late March, most of the reds have been harvested, and the region has emptied of people—holidaymakers have headed home, the seasonal workers have moved on to their next jobs. The bustling busyness of vintage gives way to checklists and constant monitoring of alcohol, sulphur dioxide, sugar and acid levels, and continual sensory assessment of the fermenting wines.

Though Edward is still busy, his working hours have become more normal, and he and Bella settle into an easy routine, sleeping at Edward's place if they've been out with friends, and at Bella's if they've had a quiet one after work. They have lunch together frequently, though Bella often meets the girls at local cafés during her break.

The weather starts to cool in the evenings and early mornings, but the days remain warm and sunny.

"Hey, you wanna see something cool?" Edward is walking Bella back up to the Cellar Door after the lunch break they spent sitting in the sun outside the lab.

She smiles. "Sure."

"'Kay. This way." He grabs her hand and braids their fingers together.

They leave the concrete path and head toward the Semillon block, which confuses Bella. "Didn't the Sem come off back in January."

Edward chuckles. "Mostly. Come on."

He pulls her down one of the rows. "We'd pretty much written this off with the all the rain, but check it out."

Bella follows his lead as he squats down and pushes some foliage out of the way.

"Ew! Oh my goodness. Yuck." Bella frowns, looking between Edward's bright smile and the shriveled, mould covered berries.

The grapes are starting to resemble raisins, wrinkly and sagging. Some are still vaguely green in colour, others are tinged reddish, but they're all covered with furry-looking grey-brown spores.

"Gross."

Edward chuckles, standing up straight. "They don't look pretty, huh?"

Bella wrinkles her nose at him as she gets to her feet. "I wouldn't drink anything made from that. Just, no."

He smiles, his hands sliding around her waist. "You _have_ drunk something made from grapes just like that."

"What?!"

"That mould is called _Botrytis cinerea_." He smirks, waiting for her to make the connection.

Bella pulls back to look up at him. "Botrytis?"

He nods. "Yep."

"Botrytis Semillon." She looks back at the grapes, shaking her head. "But it's so disgusting."

"Yeah, I know." His left hand flat on her lower black, Edward twists the ends of her ponytail around the fingers of his right hand. "But see how they're all desiccated—all wrinkly and stuff? The water content is reduced and there's glycerol forming, and the sugar content is high from the grapes ripening for so long—so you produce a much thicker, sweeter wine."

Bella purses her lips. "Well, whoever decided to try making wine out of mouldy berries is just disgusting—regardless of the end result."

Edward chuckles, before he ducks down to kiss her. "I love you."

She lifts to her tiptoes, kissing him harder, winding her fingers into his hair, tugging, trying to bring him closer. She pouts when he pulls away. "I wasn't done kissing you."

"Bel, I reckon if you kept kissing me like that I'd be tempted to strip you naked right here, and I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Sounds like a good idea to me."

Edward groans, leaning his forehead against Bella's.

She sighs. "Or maybe not. I'd be thinking about all that mould the whole time."

Laughing, Edward pulls away.

She grins up at him. "I love you, too, by the way."

* * *

_I found myself that day  
__There was no other way  
__I'd spent some time away  
__I'd never be the same_

_I finally was awake  
__Like water to my face  
__I'd finally found my place  
__I'd never be the same  
__I'd never be the same_

Sam Margin's voice floats out the open windows, carried on the heavy piano chords, as Bella and Edward make their way across Charlotte's front yard. Their fingers are linked, wrists brushing as they walk. It's not quite six o'clock, but it's nearly dark. Though the days are still bright and clear and warm, daylight savings' end and the approach of autumn are cutting them shorter.

"Oi! Masen."

Edward tugs Bella to a stop, his smile wide. She looks over her shoulder at the unfamiliar guy striding across the grass. He's tall, thin, with dark hair cropped close to his head. Bella can't be sure in the fading light, but she thinks he might be of Chinese heritage.

Edward squeezes her hand before he releases it. He launches himself towards the newcomer, slapping his back and embracing him fiercely. Bella smiles through her confusion—she's watched Edward wrestle and muck around with his mates, but she's never seen him display this level of affection with anyone other than herself.

The other guy looks over Edward's shoulder at her, his smile warm. He says something to Edward, who pulls back and nods. He releases the new guy and steps back towards her, pulling her to his side.

"Bella, this is Ben. Ben, Bella. My girlfriend." Edward likes the way that the word feels in his mouth. _My girlfriend._

Bella smiles and extends a hand. "It's nice to meet you." Her mind is racing, trying to piece together the things she's heard her friends say about this guy—it all adds to up to … very little. She's usually heard his name spoken quietly, the speaker's eyes flicking towards Angie to make sure she's not listening.

Ben nods, his smile fades but his regard is friendly as he grips her fingers. "Likewise."

"Ben's a RAAF pilot." Edward tells her. "Which is why you've not met him yet."

"Raff?"

"R-Double-A-F. Air force."

"_Oh_." Bella feels Edward's fingers drawing absent-minded circles on the exposed skin between her t-shirt and her jeans. It makes her shiver, though the April air is by no means cold.

"How long you home for?"

"Just three weeks." Ben looks at the ground, kicking at the grass.

"Awesome." Edward's smile fades to a frown as he studies his mate's expression. "She doesn't know you're here, does she?"

Ben shakes his head. "Nah. I – well, I …"

Edward shakes his head. "That's not fair, man."

Bella wonders if she should give the two men some privacy, but Edward's fingers are digging into her waist, anchoring her to his side.

Ben looks over Edward's shoulder as he speaks. "I need to see her, mate. And if she knew I was coming …" He rubs his hand across his hair. "Well, she wouldn't have come, would she?"

Bella feels Edward's sigh, his chest deflating. He shakes his head and rubs his free hand across his face. "Well, this should be fun." He kisses Bella's temple, and she feels as though he's seeking comfort as much as he's trying to reassure her.

Ben pulls open the screen door and though the music doesn't stop, the crowd of people in the lounge room seem to freeze. Conversations halt mid-sentence, and Bella shakes her head as every pair of eyes flick from the man walking in the door to the dark-haired girl curled up on a faded and tattered armchair in the corner. She hears Edward's quiet groan and suspects he's thinking the same thing—_Way to make things more awkward, guys._

Angela is on her feet immediately, her bottom lip between her teeth. Her expression wavers, and Bella thinks she looks like she wants to both punch Ben in the face and throw her arms around him and never let go.

Instead she points a finger at him, her hand shaking. "You … No."

"Angela," Ben's voice is soft, wrapping around her name like its precious to him.

"No." She shakes her head, looking anywhere but at his face. "No. Not tonight." She steps over Charlotte, who is sitting on the floor by the couch. Charlotte reaches for her friend's hand but is ignored. The room holds its collective breath as Angela's footsteps grow softer, and the back door slams shut.

Bella looks around at their friends. Heads swivel and eyes meet in silent conversation—_Who's going after her?_

Bella sighs and looks over her shoulder at Edward. She lifts her eyebrows.

He nods and kisses her cheek. "Thanks, love. You don't know him, or their history, so …" He sighs. "She might let you in." He lowers his voice. "If she doesn't—it's not you, okay? Don't take it personally." He kisses her lips.

She nods, leaning into him for a moment, before she follows Angela outside, stopping only to grab two bottles of cider from the fridge.

Angela is sitting by the pool, her jeans rolled up and her toes in the water. She takes the bottle of cider Bella offers her without speaking and downs half of it immediately.

Bella doesn't know what to say, so she sits down and rolls her jeans up to her knees. The water is cool, but soothing. She takes a sip from her own bottle and waits.

"He asked me to marry him."

Bella paddles her feet in the cold water, trying to hide her surprise. She wasn't sure what to expect, but she definitely wasn't prepared for Angie's opening statement.

Angela sighs, kicking the water impatiently. "We dated in high school. Not seriously. We were just messing around, you know? When he enlisted, he moved around heaps—spent time in Townsville, Wagga, Darwin … all over. But then he was posted to Williamtown for a few years." She takes another sip of the cold cider. "That's about an hour that way." She points east with her bottle. "Towards Port Stephens. There's a RAAF base out there."

Bella nods. "I saw the signs when Edward took me to Nelson Bay."

"Right. Well, he was there for about three years. We got together—again, I guess—when he'd been there for about a year." She sighs, settling the bottle down on the pavers with a clink. "And we were pretty serious. But then he did a few short tours, and it changed him."

Angela covers her face with both hands. Her speech becomes a little muffled. "I mean, of course it did. How could it not? Seeing the things he saw." She pushes her hair off her face and lifts her head to meet Bella's gaze. "He, well, he took life a lot more seriously after that. He asked me to marry him, and I said no because I wasn't sure I wanted to live like that, you know? Moving around, being left behind whilst he toured in combat zones. I was still young, and I wasn't sure I could handle it."

"Not long after that, he got transferred to Darwin. That was about a year ago."

Angela looks at Bella, her expression almost pleading. "I went on a date last weekend." She sounds almost ashamed. "I mean, I didn't – we just kissed a bit, nothing more … It's been a year. I thought I was moving on—I wanted to, you know?"

She kicks her feet and chlorinated water darkens spots on both girls' t-shirts. "But then _he_ walks in just now, and it's like, I can't even remember what Paul looks like or why I like him and it's like … my heart's trying to climb out of my fucking body to get to Ben." She puts a hand over her chest as though she fears a hole might open up, allowing her traitor-heart to make its escape.

Bella wraps an arm around Angela's shoulder and pulls her close. She doesn't offer any advice—she doesn't have any to give.

They sit, unspeaking, as the evening sky deepens into night-time, listening to the gentle splash of their feet in the pool, the wind in the gum trees, and the muted music and the chatter of their friends spilling from the house.

"I still love Ben."

Bella smiles sadly. "I figured."

Angela sniffles. "What if he's moved on? What if … what if he _is_ worth that life—the travelling, the moving, the loneliness—and he's moved on? What if I–" her voice cracks "–missed my chance."

Bella sighs, squeezing Angela closer. The other girl rests her head on Bella's shoulder. "I don't know, sweetie. I guess there's only one way to know for sure."

Angela nods, her long hair tickling the arm Bella has wrapped around her. "I need to talk to him."

"Yeah. You do."

Angie sits up, wiping beneath her eyes with the backs of her hands. "Not tonight though. Maybe tomorrow." She drains her bottle of cider. "I need another drink."

Bella puts her hand on Angela's knee to stop her from getting up. "Ange."

Angela sighs. "I know." She covers Bella's hand with her own. "Better to get it over and done with now, huh?"

"Yeah, might be for the best."

Angela inhales deeply, squaring her shoulders. "Okay. I can do this."

This time when she stands, Bella lets her go.

* * *

A few minutes after she sees Angela's silhouette slip back inside, Edward appears beside her, balancing two glasses of red wine. She holds them whilst he rolls up his jeans and sits down, his thigh pressing against hers. He takes one of the glasses from her and sips from it. "You okay, love?"

She smiles. "Yeah. Just thinking."

He wraps an arm around her waist, slipping his fingers through a belt loop on her jeans. "About?"

"Taking chances while you can."

Edward waits, fidgeting with the strip of denim. There's something invisible pressing on his chest, making it difficult to breathe.

Bella leans into him, drawing strength from his warmth. "I want to stay here. I feel at home here … with you."

The heaviness in Edward's chest dissipates so quickly he feels as though he might be floating a few inches above the ground. He kisses the top of Bella's head. Strands of her hair stick to his lips as he pulls away. "I want you to stay, too," he murmurs. "Here. With me."

She pulls back, looking at his shadowed face. "What if –"

He's already shaking his head. "There are no what-ifs, Bel. If you can't get a visa to work for the next few years, I'll move to the States."

"Edward …"

He smiles at the note of warning in her voice. _Does she still not understand?_ "What?"

"Do you – I mean, do you want to move overseas?"

He shrugs. "I've always wanted to do a vintage in Napa." There are places all over the globe, Old World and New, where he can work and learn a great deal.

"That's not what I asked." She rests her head against his shoulder, breathing in the scents of musk and spice and Edward.

He sets his glass down and grabs her hand, twining their fingers together. "I've told you before, haven't I? I don't care where my feet are. I love this place, I do." He pauses. _Man up_, he tells himself. "But I love you more."

Her fingers tighten around his.

"So if being with you means moving to the States, or to France, or freakin' Algeria—then so be it. My feet, my hands, they can be happy anywhere. But my heart, it wants you."

The words catch in Bella's throat—like there are too many trying to escape at once, there's no room for them all to squeeze out. All she manages is his name. "Edward …"

He chuckles, kissing her temple. "I love you."

She nods against his shoulder. "I love you, too." Her voice cracks. "So much."

She lifts her face, cupping his cheek with her free hand. The corners of her eyes prickle—it almost hurts to look into his face. The severity of emotion in his gaze scorches her. Any lingering doubts she may have carried over the intensity of his feelings for her are burned away.

He kisses her softly, just lips against lips, their breaths mingling.

When he pulls away she follows, chasing his lips, murmuring a complaint. Edward's chuckle becomes a moan as Bella's tongue seeks his.

When their lips are throbbing with each other's pulse, they break apart. They sit in silence, heavy breaths lifting their shoulders. They paddle their feet in the cold water, warmed by the flame of security and love smouldering between them.

* * *

**A/N: I adore you all. Thank you so much for the lovely reviews. _Terroir_ crossed the 1000 review mark this week, which is the first time I've had a WIP do that! I'm heaps stoked. **

**Thank you, as ever, to my BelieveItOrNot who teaches me so much, and makes me feel so very loved.**

**Love, Shell x**


	15. Chapter 15

_Chapter 15._

* * *

Bella shivers in the early morning air, her breath coming in plumes of steam. She smiles; tucking her chin into the coils of the red Merino wool scarf Edward's mother knitted her. A memory stirs, grainy and faded around the edges. She's eight years old and chasing her mom with her "dragon breath." Hands clawed, she can't stop laughing long enough to exhale the misty dragon-fire.

The air fills with grunts and shouted instructions as the scrum packs, and Bella shakes her head to chase away the memory. She grimaces as she watches fourteen men shove against each other. She looks past the scrum to where Edward is waiting, watching the movement of ball intently. She's secretly glad he usually plays flyhalf—as he is today—or in the centres. She's never seen any of the guys get injured in a scrum, but it still makes her uneasy.

The pack breaks apart, and Pete tosses the ball over his shoulder. Edward catches it easily and puts it to the boot, and Bella shakes her head as it bounces out of the field of play to cries of "Nice, Mase!" Edward has tried to explain the rules of rugby to her on a number of occasions, but she still gets a bit lost at times, particularly when it seems to degenerate into the two teams kicking the ball from one end of the field to the other, over and over.

This time, though, the boys move into formation for a lineout.

Beth appears to Bella's left, passing her a cup of tea in a polystyrene cup. "Careful, dear. It's hot."

"Thank you."

"Brrr. It's gotten cold early this year," Edward's mum complains. "I don't remember it ever being so cold in May."

They sip quietly, watching as the boys win the lineout—a few quick passes have Alistair crossing the line for a try right under the posts.

"So, you all packed?"

Bella nods, watching as Edward pulls off his headgear and sets up to take the conversion. "Mostly."

His kick is true, two points get added to the board, and Edward receives a few slaps on the back—and butt; a tradition that never ceases to amuse Bella.

She turns to face Beth as the boys get back in position for the restart. "I just need to chuck a few more things in my carry-on, but I'm all set."

"What time do you fly out?"

"Eight o'clock."

"So you need to check in at what—five am?" Beth winces. "That's an early start."

Bella nods. "I know. We're going to stay in Sydney tomorrow night, but still, it'll mean being up at around four am."

Beth shakes her head. The creases surrounding her eyes deepen as she smiles at Bella. She coughs and clears her throat. "We'll miss you around here."

A piercing whistle cuts through their conversation, signalling full time. Edward jogs over to them, pressing a kiss to his mother's cheek, then one to Bella's lips. She wrinkles her nose. "You're gross."

"Not to mention filthy," his mother adds, pointing at his grass and mud-stained kit.

"Yeah, yeah." He throws his head gear into his bag and grabs a bottle of water. He can't even pretend to be annoyed as his mother and Bella exchange smiles.

"You ready to go, Bel?"

"Yup." She turns to Beth and kisses her cheek. "It was lovely to see you."

"You, too, dear." Beth pulls Bella into a brief hug, patting her back twice. "Travel safe, okay?"

"Will do."

"All right, love. Take care." She steps back and points at her son. "You, behave."

He winks at Bella. "Yes, Ma." He presses a kiss to his mother's weathered cheek, promising to call her soon.

Beth shakes her head and clucks her tongue, but her smile is wide as Edward slips his arm around Bella's waist. She waves them off as she gathers up the bag of knitting she hasn't touched all morning.

Despite her earlier protests, Bella doesn't object when Edward stops by the ute and pushes her against the side of it, kissing her hard. He's smelly and sweaty, but she doesn't care, sliding her tongue into his mouth and demanding more. He obliges—until his teammates start whistling and carrying on. Bella rolls her eyes and flips off Pete and Garrett as they climb into Garrett's 4WD.

"Aww, don't be like that, girl."

"Yeah. We're totally going to miss you, Bella."

She shakes her head and waves them off. "See ya, boys."

Edward turns the key in the ignition, chuckling. "Idiots."

"So," she says, as he pulls out of the carpark. "What's the plan for the rest of the day?"

He shrugs, checking the rear vision mirror. "I need to have a shower. After that, I'm all yours."

Bella smirks. "Only_ after_ the shower?" She slides a hand down his thigh and squeezes his knee.

Edward mimes banging his head on the steering wheel. "I'm going to crash and it's going to be your fault."

Bella giggles. "Sorry." She folds her hands in her lap, smiling demurely.

He shakes his head, and changes the subject. "Do you have much else to pack?"

"Nope. I'm all set. You?"

He blows out a breath, wiping sweat-damp hair out of his face with his forearm. "Almost."

Bella tips her head to the side, noticing the whitening of Edward's knuckles around the steering wheel, the way he sits up straighter in his chair, licking his lips. "How are you with airplanes?"

He shrugs. "Well, I call them aeroplanes."

Bella gives him a small smile but ignores his non-answer. "Are you worried?"

Edward purses his lips. He keeps his eyes on the road as he nods once. "A bit, yeah. It's … well, it's bloody long time to be sitting in a metal tube in the sky."

"Coming here was kind of daunting," Bella says. Now, her hand on his thigh is meant to comfort, rather than tease. "But at least I'll have you sitting next to me this time."

* * *

After spending just short of twenty-four hours travelling, Edward and Bella arrive at her childhood home feeling dirty and tired. Neither of them were able to catch more than a few minutes sleep on the flights over.

Wrestling their bags out of the cab, Edward yawns, shaking his head like he's trying to clear away the fog of drowsiness.

Bella squeezes his bicep and presses a kiss to his cheek. "Prepare yourself, okay? Sue is very chatty."

"Great." Edward sets her suitcase by the front door and rubs at his eyes.

Bella links her fingers with his and lifts her fist to rap on the grey-blue door.

It opens almost immediately.

"Come in, come in. Have a seat. How are you? Was the flight all right? You must be tired. Come in and sit down. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Soda? I bought tea—Isabella said you drink a lot of tea. I have black and green, and this red tea, what's it called? From South Africa. Or I can make hot chocolate? Or there's beer, I know it's early but it probably feels late to you."

Edward blinks at the cyclone masquerading as a short, dark-haired woman who chivvies them in the front door.

Bella shakes her head, but her smile is patient. "Hi, Sue." She kisses her stepmother's cheek. "This is Edward."

"Hi, Sue. It's nice to meet you." He lowers his head to kiss Sue's cheek, but finds himself being squeezed into a surprisingly fierce hug instead. He looks over Sue's shoulder at Bella, who is barely controlling her giggles at his discomfort. He pats Sue's shoulder, and is relieved when she pulls away.

She looks over her shoulder and raises her voice. "Charlie! Isabella and Edward are here." She turns back to them. "Just leave your bags here—or do you want to take them up to Isabella's room. Edward, it's – no, no, you must be tired. You two go sit down. I'll get you a drink and something to eat. You probably need some decent food after all that awful airplane food."

She points them towards the living room, then disappears, promising food and refreshments and that Charlie will be down as soon as he's changed Seth's diaper. Her voice is the last thing to leave the room.

Bella looks at Edward, whose eyebrows are reaching for his hairline. She giggles. "You get used to it." He doesn't look convinced as she leads him into the living room and pushes him down onto the couch.

Edward reaches for Bella's hand, tangling their fingers together. He rubs his other palm on his jean-clad thigh, his knee bouncing.

"Iz!" Bella's father enters the room, his smile peeking out from beneath his moustache, his dark eyes bright with happiness. A chubby baby with Sue's complexion is perched on his hip.

Bella tears her hand from Edward's and bounces to her feet, a funny laugh-sob escaping her. She hugs her dad as fiercely as she can, mindful of little Seth. Edward stands slowly, wanting to be polite, but not wanting to get in the way of the family reunion.

He watches Bella's father kiss the top of her head—neither of them say a thing, but there's something in the way they hold each other that puts something lumpy and sharp-edged in Edward's throat.

Bella pulls back and looks down at her half-brother, holding her hands out to him. She's hesitant, almost expecting the little guy to hide his face in his Daddy's chest.

Edward can't fight his own smile as Seth gives her a drooly grin and flexes his chubby little hands, leaning towards her. She takes him, cooing quiet words as she sets him on her own hip.

"He's a sociable little thing," Charlie comments. "Didn't get that from me." He scratches his moustache, watching his children meet for the first time without a screen separating them.

He turns to Edward and extends a hand. "It's nice to meet you, Edward. Or meet you in person, anyway." His handshake is firm and warm.

"It's nice to meet you, too, sir."

Charlie huffs a laugh. "Charlie's fine, son. Or Sir Charlie works, too." He collapses into the armchair that's clearly "his spot"—with the remote controls perched on the arm, and an empty coffee cup on the small table beside it. He points to the couch. "Take a seat, Edward."

Bella sits down beside Edward, settling Seth on her lap. "This is Edward, Seth. Can you wave? Can you say hello?" She looks over the baby's head at her father.

He shrugs. "He flaps, sometimes. I don't know that it's waving. And he babbles. A lot. Sue seems to understand it, but I sure don't."

As if to demonstrate his father's point, Seth starts flapping his arms, his smile wide as he looks between Bella and Edward, burbling something that sounds like "bababababa."

Edward grins, offering the little guy his finger. "Hey, mate." A fat, wet fist closes around it, and Seth pulls it straight into his mouth.

Bella laughs as Edward's nose wrinkles, and then as he winces as his finger comes into contact with the two teeth that have barely pierced Seth's bottom gums.

"Ouch." He carefully pries his finger from the child's grip. "You got some sharp chompers there, kiddo."

"Tell me about it," Sue says, appearing at Edward's elbow with a platter of cheeses and cold meat. She sets the food down on the coffee table and waggles a finger in her son's direction. "At least it was only your finger—it's usually my nipples."

Edward chokes on a cough, which startles Seth. He looks around, and, spotting his mother, smiles and gurgles something that Edward interprets as "Mama."

Bella sighs, shaking her head.

Charlie gets to his feet. "Do you need a hand getting drinks, Sue?" He kisses his wife's cheek and guides her back towards the kitchen with his hand on her lower back.

"She's an over-sharer," Bella murmurs. "You get used to that, too."

"Okay."

Seth wriggles around on Bella's lap, and she loosens her hold on his waist as he reaches for Edward. With a grin, she sets the baby on Edward's lap. Edward's hands wrap around his little waist, lifting him up so he can support his own weight. Seth grins, dribble shining on his chin as he reaches for Edward's face. "Bah!"

"If you say so, champ."

"Bah!"

Edward looks askance at Bella, who shrugs. "I don't speak baby, but I think he likes you."

* * *

That night, Edward and Bella join her family at the dinner table, hiding their smiles as Seth spits his rice cereal all over his highchair—"He's not particularly interested in solid food yet," says Sue. "He prefers the boo– to nurse."

After they've eaten, Bella grabs Edward's hand under the tablecloth and takes a deep breath. He looks at her, trying to keep his expression neutral. He can feel the tension in her fingers as they grip his.

"Dad. Sue."

They look at her with matching half-smiles, expectant.

"I, uh, I just wanted to tell you – I mean, face to face and stuff … And be upfront about it, too." She squares her shoulders and looks her father in the eye. "I've applied to stay in Australia for another two years. Carlisle's going to sponsor me, and yeah … I haven't been approved yet, and if I'm not, then, uh, we're going to probably move to California together." She looks at Edward then back at her parents, her head bobbing a nervous nod.

Sue looks to Charlie, waiting for him to speak first. "Well, yeah. I figured you'd be staying there."

"I–" Bella chew her lip, her expression guilty.

Charlie and Sue exchange another look—one that speaks to Edward of an understanding they've come to previously. They're clearly on the same page.

As if in confirmation of Edward's conclusion, Charlie places his hand over Sue's. She speaks first. "Isabella, you know we'll support you in anything that makes you happy. That's what we want for you."

Edward sees surprise flash across Bella's face, and he squeezes her fingers. He can feel her palm dampening with nervous perspiration.

"I … I know it's a long way from home."

Edward wonders if he's the only one who notices her stumble over the word _home_.

"And I know it'll mean not being around to watch Seth grow up. And–"

"Iz." Charlie interrupts her nervous babbling.

She looks at him, licking her lips.

"Honey, we already assumed this would be the case. Well, you staying in Australia, anyway. And we'll miss you, of course," he says.

Sue nods and Seth throws his plastic spoon to the floor. "Dah!"

"You need to do what's right for you. Live your life for you." Charlie's moustache twitches with his smile. "But if it's our approval you need, then you have it." He looks at Edward. "You, too."

In those two words, Edward hears a million unsaid things. Not just _we approve_, but:_ you're good for her, she's good for you, _and _look after each other. _He nods once, and Charlie copies the movement—a silent understanding reached between the two men.

Watching that unspoken agreement occur loosens the knot of worry that Bella has been carrying around for weeks—months, even. Still, the question falls from her lips unchecked. "Really? You're sure?"

"Of course," Sue says. "Plus, I've always wanted to see Australia." She giggles, which surprises Edward—it sounds both youthful and nervous. "We've already started saving for an extended vacation out there."

Bella feels the burn of tears in the corner of her eyes as she swallows down the lump in her throat. Edward covers their tangled fingers with his other hand, and she gives him a watery-eyed smile. Charlie gets to his feet, his chair scraping the linoleum floor.

As he crouches down beside her, Bella feels as though she's five years old again. She doesn't want to cry, but a few tears sneak from the corners of her eyes, hot as they roll down her face. Her father wipes them from her cheeks, his rough fingers comforting and familiar.

"Iz." He waits for her to meet his eyes. She sniffles. "Honey, we're going to miss you. So much. But uh–" he scratches his moustache "–clichés are clichés for a reason, right? Because there's truth to them—so much truth they become overused. And you know I'm not one for sappy stuff, but they say home is where the heart is, and they're right."

He looks past Bella, and Edward knows his next words are meant for them both. "And your heart, Iz, it's with him. And that might mean living in Australia, or in California, or in France, for all I know. Don't – don't feel bad because it's so far away from where you were born. Be happy that you've found where you belong."

Edward feels that sharp obstruction form in his throat again as he watches Charlie stand and pull Bella to her feet. Her father wraps his arms around her, and her shoulders shake as she buries her face in his chest.

Edward feels like his lungs aren't expanding to their full capacity. He stores up Charlie's words in his heart, letting them chase away the worry that's been niggling at him for a while, the concern that Bella was giving up too much to stay with him. He'd move across the world in an instant to be by her side, and that she'd do the same … he roots out the seed of guilt and replaces it with gratitude.

Bella pulls away from her father, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. She nods. "Thanks, Dad."

Unperturbed by their audience, she tugs on Edward's shoulder until he scoots his chair back from the table, making room for her. She folds herself onto his lap, her head on his shoulder, her breath warm against his neck. He rubs slow circles on her back as her sniffles quiet and her breathing slows.

Seth starts to fuss. Sue's voice rolls over his squeals and whinges, soothing him. Charlie starts clearing the empty plates from the table.

His lips warm against her forehead, Bella's hand rests over Edward's heart. She feels the steady thump beneath the flesh and bone. She lets it set the time for her breath. In: thump, thump. Out: thump, thump.

Edward breathes in the subtle scent of jasmine that clings to her hair. Her shampoo puts him in mind of the vines that coil around her balcony at home, of warm summer nights and cool autumn mornings wrapped around her body. He shifts her weight, lowering his mouth to her ear. He speaks quietly. "I love you."

She nods against his chest. "I love you, too."

* * *

For two weeks, Bella and Edward explore Denver and its surrounds. For Bella, it's a strange experience, showing Edward the places and spaces that were once so familiar, but now seem foreign. She wonders if they're experiencing the city in the same way—as outsiders, passers-through. As people who are interested, but not invested.

They visit museums and galleries, go for walks, and even manage to catch a concert at Red Rocks—which they both admit was a bucket-list experience.

They run into a few of Bella's friends from high school and college, mostly by accident. They don't see Jacob, though Edward isn't sure if that's by Bella's design or Jacob's. He doesn't care either way—he's just glad he doesn't have to deal with him.

On their second to last night in the States, Bella reluctantly accepts an invitation from her friend Claire, who is hosting a party that most of her high school friends will be attending.

Edward leans against the vanity as Bella swipes mascara over her eyelashes. "You okay?"

She nods, then sighs, screwing the cap back on the mascara tube. She tosses it back in her makeup pouch. "I just – I haven't seen most of this crowd since before Mom died. I guess I'm a little nervous."

Mindful of the makeup she's just applied, Edward presses a kiss just below her ear, smiling against her skin when her breathing falters. "It'll be okay, mate. They're friends, right? And we can leave at any time."

"I guess."

He trails kisses down her neck, and across her shoulder, pushing aside the strap of her dress.

"If you keep doing that, we're not going anywhere."

Edward's laugh is warm against her collarbone. "Is that supposed to be a deterrent?" He drags his lips back up her throat, sucking at her skin, careful not to leave a mark.

She whimpers when he pulls away. "We should go."

* * *

Edward grabs Bella's hand as soon as she climbs out of Sue's car. Feeling the just-short-of-painful grip of his fingers around hers, she looks up at him, concerned. "You okay?"

He shrugs, looking at the knots of people walking across Claire's front lawn. "I'm nervous, too."

The frenetic music rises in volume each time the front door opens and more people disappear inside.

"Seriously?" Bella purses her lips as she studies his face. She touches a hand to his cheek. He _is_ nervous. She can see it in the lines that crease his forehead, in the way he licks his lips, the way he keeps smoothing down the front of his shirt with the hand not gripping hers.

"Yeah, of course. I don't know what to expect, and that makes me nervous."

Somehow his admission calms Bella's nerves. She smiles, pulling him close and tucking her head beneath his chin. "I'm glad you're here," she whispers.

They don't stay long.

Edward watches as Bella exchanges awkward greetings with old friends, and makes stilted conversation with a group of girls she introduces to him as her closest friends from high school. He's pretty sure the blonde is Claire, the girl with the nose piercing is Kimmy, and the one with the dark fringe that keeps getting in her eyes is Leah.

They swap stories and then the girls stutter through condolences when they ask after Renée—apparently Bella's mom was pretty popular with her friends, even if they'd only met her a handful of times. Bella shrugs. "She was all for, uh, experimenting," she murmurs. "They liked her 'cause she didn't set the same rules their own parents did."

The girls eventually drift away, chatting and laughing and catching up with other friends. Edward frowns, watching them, until Bella tugs on his hand. "It's okay," she says. "It happens. People change."

He nods. "I guess."

She smiles up at him. "Edward? I want to go home."

* * *

By late July, Bella is getting nervous and impatient as she and Edward wait to hear if either or both of their visas have been approved.

Edward seems completely unconcerned, which she finds equal parts reassuring and infuriating.

When she loses her cool with her empty email inbox on a Wednesday afternoon, impatient tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, Edward grabs a bottle of Barbaresco, a few glasses, and his ragged picnic blanket, and they return to their secret space overlooking the valley.

Wrapping an arm around her, he pulls her into the space at his side that she fits into so easily—her shoulder under his, his chin on her head.

Bella breaks the quiet with softly spoken words. With his hand in hers, his arm around her, and their heads together, it seems less like the dilemma it did when she opened her inbox to find no new emails had been received. Up here, it seems more a bump in the road she knows they can step over together. "What if _you_ can't get a visa either?"

Edward sighs, his fingertips grazing the skin of her forearm. "In the unlikely event of both our governments conspiring against us … well, there's another option." He sucks his lip into his mouth as Bella pulls away. She looks into his eyes, her brow creasing.

"Are you – I mean, do you …" She shakes her head, trying to find a way to form the jumble of thoughts in her brain into coherent sentences.

Edward shifts on the rug, turning his body to face her. He tucks some hair behind her ear. "Bel, it's not ideal, I know. I mean, I want that with you, and of course, I'd rather do it in our own time, when we decide it's what we want." He sighs, looking past her. His eyes look almost green in the dappled light.

He looks out over the valley stretched out before him. The fruit stripped from their branches, the leaves having died away with the cold weather, the once neat vineyard rows look like rows of rusted iron fences against the earth. From up here, the valley looks close to death.

But not to Edward. He knows that dormant vines are saving their energy, focusing it not on maintaining last summer's greenery, but on the buds that will burst come spring. A few weeks ago, the pruning teams came through, cutting back the dead wood, preparing the vineyard for the next harvest. He breathes deep, the scents of dust and earth, wood smoke and eucalyptus filling his nostrils.

Turning back to Bella, he smiles. "I love you, Bella. And if that's what it takes to stay by your side, then, that's what I want." He chuckles. "If you'll have me."

Bella looks at the ground, picking up a beige-coloured gumleaf and crushing it in her fingers. Even dry and dead, it leaves her fingers smelling like eucalyptus. She searches her feelings, expecting panic and fear but finding none.

She thinks the word carefully, almost daring herself to freak out. _Marriage_.

Her heart continues thumping out its steady pace.

_Why isn't the thought filling me with anxiety?_ she wonders. She looks for the old objections: _I'm too young, I haven't lived enough, I'm not ready_. They're just not there.

"Bel?"

She looks at Edward, her lip between her teeth.

"I'm not proposing right now, okay?" He smiles hesitantly. "Just – don't freak out on me, okay? I mean – if it's not what you want–"

"I'm not freaking out." She chews her lip for a moment, then looks up and meets Edward's gaze. The words are already in her mouth, daring her to speak them, daring her to make them real. "When you ask me—whenever you ask me, for this reason, or just because you want to—I'll say yes."

Bella smiles as her words of affirmation seem to wrap around them, drawing them closer together, sinking into their bones and speeding their hearts.

Edward presses his forehead to Bella's, his breathing hitching a little. He closes his eyes to keep the tears from spilling down his cheeks. With Bella's lips centimetres from his, the words _Are you sure?_ pop into his mind, but he bats them right away, choosing to be confident in her assurance, and kisses her, softly at first and then harder, deeper.

Pushing Bella down onto the rug, he loses himself in the push and pull of their lips, the taste of her mouth, the shape of her in his arms. She shrieks when he tries to slide his hand under her jeans and into her underwear. She grabs his wrist. "Your fingers are freezing!"

He groans, rolling away. Eyes on the darkening sky, he tries to catch his breath and calm the swooping feeling in his belly.

Bella's fingers slide under his shirt, brushing against his stomach, and he flinches. She laughs. "See. It's too cold."

She settles herself beside him, lifting her head as Edward slides his arm behind her neck. They lie, unspeaking, listening to the soft brush of eucalyptus leaves and the distant hoot of a Tawny Frogmouth, watching day fade into night.

"I should get you home," Edward says when the first stars pierce the darkness above them.

Bella yawns and shivers, wriggling closer, her hair tickling his cheek. "Mmm … I am home."

* * *

Scrum = manouevre in a rugby union match that involves seven guys from each team throwing their arms around each other and shoving as hard as they can. You might want to google it ;)

Tawny Frogmouth = is this ugly nocturnal bird that looks kind of like an owl got busy with a kookaburra. Also known as a Mopoke (though so is a Southern Boobook, go figure) because that's what it's call sounds like "moh-poke."

Thank you to Nuttyginger for letting me know Bella would hear re: her visa via email. Much appreciated.

* * *

**A/N: Their epilogue will post tomorrow :)**

** Lovelies ... you blow me away with your kind reviews. When I started writing in Nov '11, I figured I'd be stoked if maybe ten people read my silly stories. I'm completely humbled and overwhelmed by the love you've shown _Terroir_, and my wine-making Aussie boy. Thank you. So much.**

**Miss Winkles, dreaminginnorweigen, moirae, IReen H. - thank you for the WCs and the encouragement. You all inspire me more than you can know. I adore you all.**

**BelieveItOrNot ... Tam, what can I possibly say that will capture the way you inspire me, both as a writer, and as a person? I am so thankful for all the things you've taught me about writing, ****your honesty when I'm falling short of the mark, and ****all the times you've said "of course you can." You are an amazing writer, and a beautiful friend, and I love you. Thank you.**

**Shell x**


	16. Chapter 16

_Epilogue_.

* * *

_Two years later._

By the time the grey clouds gather overhead, thick and dark, trapping the warmth of summer against the earth, the vines have been stripped bare. A perfect season, early rains and then clear blue skies until harvest, Edward can hardly believe his luck. The mercury hasn't lifted over forty degrees Celsius all summer.

When he set the picking teams to work, he told them to leave any sunburned bunches on the vine, along with any bunches that contained too many under-ripe berries. The grapes they harvested were ripe and round, so purple they were almost black.

A few weeks after vintage, with the rain still hammering down on the tin roof, Edward is analysing some samples he's taken from the fermenter. All the numbers are looking good. Fermentation is complete, the titratable acidity and pH are exactly where he anticipated them being.

He picks up a sample and takes a sip.

Redcurrants and dark berry fruit. Spice. Full bodied. Highly tannic. Incredible richness of the palate.

He smiles. After malolactic fermentation and a good fourteen months in oak, and then a solid ten, fifteen years of bottle age—this wine will be spectacular.

He hands a sample to Carlisle, who holds it up to the light before he noses it, his eyes closing.

He sips, then looks into the glass suspiciously, like he's wondering if what he's tasting is real. He takes another sip, aerating the wine before expectorating it precisely, the stream of liquid hitting the sides of the metal bucket with a pinging sound. "Bloody hell."

He lifts his eyebrows as he looks at Edward. Their grins match.

Three years is a long time to wait out an experiment, to see if the sacrifice of vine space and grape yield and possible income was worth it. The look they exchange is not just triumph, but relief. The gamble paid off.

Carlisle claps Edward's shoulder. "Well done, mate. Chuck in the PMS and press it." He grins. "Let's get this baby in some wood."

"Thanks, Carl." Edward's shoulders sag—the weight is lifted but it's left him exhausted.

Carlisle frowns. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Edward scrubs his fingertips against his scalp.

"Missing Bella?"

Edward nods, his eyes on the glass set before him on the bench.

Carlisle tries to hide his smile, but isn't successful. "It's only a few more days, isn't it?"

Edward's thumb moves to his fourth finger, absently pushing the gold band in circles. "Yeah, she's back Wednesday arvo."

"So, should I expect you'll be in late on Thursday?"

Edward feels his cheeks heat, but he's saved from trying to answer by Jasper.

"That's so gross." He swipes a glass from the lab bench and sticks his nose in it. His resemblance to his father is pronounced as he squints at the purple-red liquid he's tasting. He takes a sip, nodding to himself. "Fuckin' hell, Mase. That's gunna be beautiful."

"Thanks, kid."

Jasper scowls at him as he lifts the glass back to his mouth. He spits the wine into the bucket a little too forcefully, and a fine spray of red wine—and saliva—coats his hands. Shaking his head in disgust, he stalks over to the tap and starts scrubbing his hands clean.

Edward and Carlisle look at each other, lips pressed tight to hold their laughter inside.

Jasper flips them both off, water dripping down his raised hands and onto the floor. "Don't you two have some work to do or something?"

Carlisle squeezes Edward's shoulder. "All right, I'll leave you to it." He looks at his son. "You, come with me."

* * *

Bella's back arches, her thighs tightening around Edward's head as she comes undone, his name carried on her sigh.

When the weight of bliss drains from her limbs, she puts a hand on his shoulder. "Come here."

He lifts his face to hers, kissing her softly. "I missed you."

She chuckles. "I can tell." Her palm against his cheek, her smile fades. "I missed you, too."

Edward rolls off her, and they lie facing each other, catching up on the two weeks they've spent apart. "Seth's so big now," Bella says. "And he's so precious with Rachel. He calls her Sis-sah, and at first, he was really unsure about letting me hold her. He was all, "No drop her, Bella! That's my sis-sah." It was adorable."

Edward grins, imagining the chubby toddler who calls him "Eddah" over Skype trying to defend his new baby sister from his big sister.

"Oh, and Rose emailed me."

Edward grimaces. "Yeah, Emmett called yesterday morning."

"Sad, huh?" Bella grabs his hand and weaves their fingers together. "I guess it makes sense, though."

"He'd been unhappy for a while, apparently," Edward says, fiddling with the diamond that adorns his wife's finger. "He persisted for Rose's sake, but …"

"But, he was homesick, lonely, and hated the weather," Bella says.

"Yeah."

"That's what Rose said, too. And she won't move out here while her mom's still unwell."

Edward sighs. "I guess sometimes, no matter how much you love each other, you just can't make it work."

Bella hooks her ankle around his leg. "I guess. Sucks, though."

"It does." Edward kisses the corner of her mouth until he feels her frown morph into a smile. Pulling back, he chuckles quietly. "Jasper and Alice are back together, though."

That makes Bella snicker. "How many times did they break up while I was away?"

"Uh, at least twice, I think."

Bella rolls over and squirms until her back is pressed against Edward's chest. He wraps an arm around her waist, pressing kisses across her shoulder.

He feels her voice in his chest. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

"I'm glad we made it work, Edward. And by the way, I'm not visiting my Dad without you again. You're going to have to come with me next time."

She feels his smile against her shoulder blade. "I'm not arguing."

"We just belong together, you know? Always."

"Yes," Edward says, "Isn't it pretty to think so?" Bella vibrates with laughter in the circle of his arms.

He pulls her closer, yawning. The warmth of her skin and the scent of her shampoo and the contentment that blankets them lull him into an easy sleep.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing and recommending _Terroir_. It means the world to me.**

**Believey, you're my favourite colour.**

**Love, Shell x**


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